


and I'll be good (if you can tell me how)

by lollipopmania



Category: Naruto
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Assassins, Slow Burn, Spies, sex and violence lbr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 113,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollipopmania/pseuds/lollipopmania
Summary: The councilor looks up at her. “Any questions?”“No, Sir.”He nods.“Good,” he says, not seeming to care too much about the situation at hand. Perhaps they send out more people across the world than she thinks. He lifts a hand and gestures between her and the man. “Temari, this is Shikamaru Nara. Your husband.”--a (not quite real) arranged marriage/spies au
Relationships: Nara Shikamaru/Temari
Comments: 321
Kudos: 195





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this began as a wayward attempt at an arranged-marriage au (genuinely trying to fill out fic bingo) and then turned into a spies fic, and has now basically ended as an americans au in totality. hopefully a semi-valuable use of my quarantine time! very slow burn, temari-centric.
> 
> [Translated into Portuguese](https://www.spiritfanfiction.com/historia/e-eu-vou-ficar-bem-se-voce-puder-me-dizer-como-20913363/capitulo1)  
> by UmraoJaan

Temari sits up straight. The last thing she wants is to make a bad impression. 

She presses against the back of the long bench and bites her tongue, trying not to move at all. She wonders if they are watching her right now. It’s possible — she should be thoroughly vetted and evaluated. It’s unlikely that they are looking at her at this moment though, all things considered… after all, they probably have better things to do. 

Temari is alone in the room. There are two doors, one entrance and one exit. The one to her right leads into the Councilor’s office. The one to her left leads to his secretary’s office. She wonders why they keep a room between them. Perhaps solely to make people like her, people waiting, more nervous?

She swallows. She’s heard, on the lines, from whispers around the academy — from absolutely no one who _really_ knows (those people are all long gone) — that they will only give you twenty-four hours’ notice before assignment. 

It _is_ an assignment, she’s almost sure of it. She’s been groomed for weeks now. Years of preparation, sure, but a few key weeks of noticing more attention on her. There have been more physicals than usual and a deeper background study by officials. She has noticed cars outside her apartment and things moved in her room. She’s known, since eight am this morning when she walked into the academy only to be stopped at the front desk and told to report over to the council building, that it is time. 

_Finally_ , she had thought, although now she is not so sure. She hasn’t seen her brothers in days. She hasn’t gone out with friends in weeks. If she only has tonight, only the next few hours, how will she say goodbye? Is she ready? She doesn’t think so. 

It could be anything though. She could be sent out for six months. She could be transferred up north. She has experience with those allies, so it’d be reasonable to place her there. That would be easiest. No cover; and even if there were, nothing too deep. A few months, max. 

Of course, she knows better. She has always known, since she entered the senior academy and was placed on the Kirigakure training desk. She knows, as soon as she enters that room, her whole life will be changed forever. These are her last few minutes of personal autonomy; of freedom. 

Or maybe they’re not. Maybe her whole life has already been changed. 

Lucky, she thinks, that she has a life _to_ change. Lucky, she has something, anything, she can give to her country. So many don’t. 

There is a sound to her right and a few seconds later, the door opens. 

It’s time.

* * *

She’s right, of course. She almost always is. 

They’re sending her to Kiri. She leaves tomorrow.

* * *

First, after breaking the news, they keep her for two hours to go over some basics. She has trained for all of this, so it’s nothing new she’s learning, except for the specifics:

She will be given a husband, another agent, and together they will be embedded in Kiri. It will be deep cover, a lifelong assignment. She and her husband will be partners, through work, not through love or anything traditional like that. They will work together, dedicate their lives, _together_. 

They will be a young couple with boring jobs and a boring life and they will draw no attention to themselves. They will have children and grow old, with a standard pension and, by all external readings, be happy, lifelong citizens of Kirigakure. And on the side, at night, they will be covert operatives for Suna, working to thwart the aims of the Kiri government and those of the Water Lands Alliance in general. 

Temari knows people — dozens, dozens — who have done this before. Of course, the moment they are assigned, she never sees them again; she doesn’t verify these assignments, but it passes around like common knowledge. Everyone suspects — on how someone leaves, on how they were being trained — what their future holds. 

It’s a cover, not a marriage. 

She has cultivated _fake_ marriages before, of course. She has been into the field many times. Fake relationships, fake dating, fake connections and love — she has done it all before. But this won’t be that. It’s not an easy-way-in or simply the plausible cover story for a specificoperation. It’s not a honeypot (she’s done those too, her and her comrades seducing others for access, usually in pairs, and these men (and they’re _always_ men) somehow don’t find it completely improbable that two younger, more attractive people would ever _want_ to engage in a threesome with them). This isn’t anything like that. It’s nothing like what she knows. It’s not, simply, “work”. It’s the rest of her life. It’s her entire life. 

Of course, work always is for her — work has always come first. But there hasn’t yet been anything asked of her that is quite like what’s being asked of her now. Not like this. 

Her job has always been the priority. It has ruined potential relationships, her social life, and her family (literally). The job is _her_ priority. She lives for it, kills for it, and will, possibly, die for it. 

It’s always been everything, in theory. These things that she has given up to it (her friends, her family) have all been consequences of her choice of work, not direct results from her assignments. Except now they are. Now, the job _is_ her family. Any semblance of family — this husband, these children — will not be hers. Everything ( _everything_ ) will be theirs. 

Temari has to take deep breaths as she walks from the Council building back to the academy. She will clean out her locker, head home, and get some affairs in order. Then she’ll go back to the Council, where, having read the dossier, she will be ready. Perhaps she will meet him then — this husband of hers — though there is no time frame. She could meet him much later… she may even meet him in Kiri. She hasn’t been told anything. 

Her shoes click along the flagstone. 

She tries to not look around so much, to keep her face stoic lest she draw any attention to herself. But she does try to take in the path, the buildings, the scent in the air as much as possible. She has grown up here. Everything she has ever done and ever will do is for this land. And now will be the last time she sees it in person. Photographs will never capture the scent of dust and the clearness of the sky. She has been to different countries before. It is a different sky, no matter how you look at it. 

There will be no end to this. This is it. If she gets pulled, if she returns here again, something will be very, very wrong. In all likelihood, if there is ever a situation in which she can no longer remain in Kiri, she will be dead. If it gets bad enough, she will be dead long before Suna can intervene to get her out. 

And even then, what would happen? 

Her home, her husband, her children — what would happen?

She exhales, slow, trying not to overthink. 

Her children — bodies which come from her, which will be made _of_ her — will not be hers. They will go to the government. They were never hers, and they never will be, to begin with. Nor her husbands. Even if they could come back (surely, just like her, he will feel the longing for Suna all the way in his bones), even if they could keep their children, then what? Will they raise them together, a couple who was never in love? As if they are divorced, perhaps, sharing custody and categorizing times of the week by care? 

No, she knows. No. The government would never allow it. They could never come back. The citizens of Suna are happy, they believe in their country, they believe in their moral righteousness. But the light that is cast on their citizens, so brightly, must cast a very long shadow. That is where she is now, or maybe where she always has been. She cannot leave it now. She doesn’t want to. And, if she is honest, she will never have a chance to — she gave up that right a long time ago. 

It is no matter. Temari comes to the end of the square, right before the academy doors. She is only a mile from home. After she cleans out her locker, she will walk the rest of the way to her apartment. She should take the train, after all, she doesn’t have too much time. And she has a lot to read, a lot to learn, a lot to _become_. 

But now, she decides to walk. She will spend ten minutes in the academy, walk home, gather her things, and then sit at her table and read until it is time to head back. After all, this will be the last time she will ever walk down these streets she grew up on, fully as herself. 

* * *

They’ve been monitoring her for a few weeks, but they must have been implementing this plan long before. After all, they have created a whole life for her. A long, immutable paper trail of an entire existence. It’s not as hard, in Kiri, she thinks. There have been so many wars, new alliances, previously uninhabited islands — it must be easier than in other countries, she imagines, to make someone just… _appear_. Her parents have headstones, there is an accident report and state paperwork when she became a ward, high school records, a college diploma, and recommendation letters. She has a whole life created that started long before it was determined to be hers. 

She assumes this, of course, but when she does finally sit down at her kitchen table and begin reading the dossier, her name hasn’t even been changed out in the report. The entire file still reads with a man called X and a woman called Y. 

She will be, beginning tomorrow, a scientist. She will work in a laboratory while her husband begins a master’s degree. She was hired without an interview because the lab could offer her husband free schooling for paying her close to nothing. They don’t have much money. Her parents left her with nothing, his, when they passed away recently, left some money which they have now invested in a house. 

They like the city. They like going to movies. Her undergraduate thesis speaks to a lifelong interest in ancient physics and her resume shows a new hobby in quantum mechanics. She grew up in the system, far removed from creating any permanent home. Her husband was her first, and only, boyfriend. 

He likes to write. He enjoys politics and books on the history of civilization. His potential tracks in the future are to be a journalist, a political aide, and/or eventually a confidant of the Water Daimyo, which she thinks is a little overly-optimistic. Her husband grew up clean and happy and loved until his parents passed away last year. They’ve moved to start anew, to begin a new marriage, a new job, and a new _life_ somewhere, together. 

Easy enough. Easy enough to read and comprehend. It’s just black ink on white paper, and she can read the words and understand that someone created this life, this person and marriage before, and then decided, after its formation, that it was to be _hers._

She wonders about him. About all the men that it could be. She knows many young, strapping men ready to take the assignment alongside her. There are many she likes, a few she doesn’t, and only one or two she would actively find revolting. She hopes it is the former, but with her luck, it will be the latter. It’s no matter. She has partnered before with men she doesn’t like, with men and women whom she’d trade out for anyone remotely capable. She’s had sex with people she knows she would never, _never_ desire. 

Even if it is one of those situations — where she’s so unimpressed with him that she’d rather risk her life (more than usual) than have him responsible for hers — she will manage. She’s gone through those before, fueled by the thought that it would be over soon, but Temari believes in herself with this. She knows that, even if she is revolted by her husband, she will overcome it. He isn’t important. Compatibility with her husband is not the mission. If her goal was happiness, she would have gone into another profession. 

Generally, though, she likes the men she works with. She will be fine. 

She has a boyfriend now. She doesn’t love him. But she hopes, sort of, that it is him. 

It’s impossible, really… he is older and has never had a focus on Kirigakure in any way like she has. And she has never heard of people who were already together being sent together. Still, at least if it were him, he is someone she knows she would be happy with, someone she knows already she can trust; someone, some final thing, that she _chose_. 

* * *

Temari goes straight up to the office this time without being directed. And she waits in that same middle-room between the two closed doors. 

She hasn’t changed out of her uniform since she ventured to the academy this morning. That was only seven hours ago! She hasn’t eaten yet. It’s been a lifetime already. 

At home, she debated changing or brushing her hair or doing anything she normally would for a more formal setting. After all, this may be her first impression of the man she will be married to (… or maybe they are already married as there will never be an actual wedding?). She’s decided against it though. She isn’t sure what to do. She isn’t sure how to act. 

How should she act?

How can she even begin to articulate the feeling of meeting your husband — a partner, a means to an end — for the first time when already knowing the conclusion? 

But people have done this before. 

Many, many people, for all of history, have done this too… is this _not_ an arranged marriage? She’s not maintaining a bloodline or uniting a country or promising a dowry or anything, but this situation isn’t too different, is it?

She has been assigned partners before. When she was fifteen, she was partnered with a boy the year above her. She was with Nejiri for three years. She has never spent so long by one person’s side. She had no choice in Nejiri, but they stayed together anyway. She put her life in his hands dozens of times. She trusted him to stay beside her. They fought and they disagreed on many things. She was annoyed by him personally and in the field sometimes, but in the end, she had no choice but to trust him and eventually she learned to. 

It’s mostly the same thing, right? The man — X, according to the dossier — will be like a partner. Mostly, she thinks, sitting in silence in that dreadful middle room. She is sure it will be a man she will get on with. 

Temari is considering this when the door to her right opens and Yashamaru steps out, gesturing with one hand for Temari to follow him. 

She is surprised. She hadn’t expected him to be here. Family is never meant to be involved in this sort of thing. She’s long assumed her youngest brother has only speculations about her exact occupation. Stuff like this is best left to intelligence, not the Politic.

Temari stands, not questioning it, and follows Yashamaru through the open door. The first thing she sees are two men, both facing the councilor’s desk, backs to her. The councilor doesn’t lift his head as Temari comes in, looking down at some files on his desk. The two men, likewise, do not turn to look at her.

“Temari,” Councilor Ebizo says. “Have you read the file?”

She walks toward the middle of the room and stops to the side of the men. “Yes, Sir.” She does not look at them, but she can tell the man closest to her is older and, if either of them is her partner, it is likely the one further away. 

The councilor looks up at her. “Any questions?”

“No, Sir.”

He nods. 

“Good,” he says, not seeming to care too much about the situation at hand. Perhaps they send out more people across the world than she thinks. He lifts a hand and gestures between her and the man she already guessed is X. “Temari, this is Shikamaru Nara. Your husband.”

Shikamaru. _Shikamaru_. 

The man between them steps back and Temari turns, slowly, unsure how she is meant to react. 

Before her, visible now that the man in the middle has stepped away, is, what she really wants to point out, only a boy. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes and sharp lines to his face. He is taller than she’s expected, skinnier. _Younger_.

He doesn’t extend his hand. Should he? 

Instead he nods, clearly evaluating her in the same way she is taking him in. And it is an obvious evaluation: the way he is looking at her. He is wholly different than what she was expecting. Before this, she wasn’t even sure what she _had_ been expecting, but this is completely, utterly, unvaryingly _other_. He is young and dark and pale and he keeps his eyes low as though he doesn’t want to look at her face. 

Who is he? 

He looks soft, too soft. He is wearing a suit, not a uniform. He’s not from the academy. 

_Nara_ … it means nothing to her. Maybe his work, before this, was so black, she had never even come across his name or face. 

“Good,” Councilor Ebizo is saying, and Temari watches as Shikamaru Nara, X, her husband, turns back to face the councilor. “Now, get acquainted. You will leave tomorrow morning.” The councilor looks to the man Shikamaru Nara had arrived with. “We have more to go over.”

Temari pulls her gaze away from Shikamaru.

Was that it? Is this all? She turns her head, searching for Yashamaru. Was this everything?

“If I may,” her uncle interjects upon seeing her look for him. He raises a finger and steps away from where he’d stayed back by the door. “How about you take Mr. Nara down around the sculpture garden? We shouldn’t be too long.”

Wait — _what_?

That’s not the sort of help she was asking for. Temari swallows. She wants to say more. Yashamaru isn’t helping anything. She has many more questions. Is this it? Is this all she has?

What does he mean _take Mr. Nara_ , as if Mr. Nara doesn’t know, as if— she glances at the two interlopers again. Because that’s what they, aren’t they? Interlopers. She sees it now. Of course, she should have suspected it this morning. 

Konohagakure. She hasn’t said the word, but she can practically feel the acidity of it on her tongue. 

It hits her like a lightning bolt. She’s a test case. A plea for unity. This really is an arranged marriage in the traditional way. She is being sent to ensure a peace treaty. She is being sent to the other side of the world with a representative from an allied country to operate covertly in another.

But she is no princess — her life, if it is the thread connecting the newly allied countries, isn’t all _that_ strong. It’s not a compelling reason to maintain peace. 

Temari is furious. She has no right to be, she understands. But wouldn’t it have been better to send her along by herself than without a partner? 

Because he’s _not_ a partner. He can’t be, can he? They won’t have the same goals, the same objectives. How can she trust this? How is she meant to ever trust _him_?

* * *

They ride the elevator in silence, just the two of them. 

She isn’t sure what to say or what to do. Her heart is pounding and her throat feels too dry. 

Beside her, he stays silent as well. 

She wonders what he is thinking. Is he, like her, scared? Is he scared of her? He must have known about this agreement — after all, he has traveled here, unlike her, who simply walked into a building in her own country — but had he been prepared beforehand? 

How does she begin to bridge this? Even though his shoulder isn’t more than a few inches from hers, it feels like a great divide lies between them.

If he were a mark — perhaps he is? — she would have more idea of what to say. She knows how to seduce someone, to get someone on her side. She has trained her interpersonal, manipulative skills for years. But he isn’t really the assignment. And she has no interest in moving him, no interest in working him. 

The lobby is conspicuously quiet when they get there. As they walk through it, she wonders what he is seeing. How is he evaluating what is before him? How had he evaluated her?

He follows her from the lobby and out a door behind the building where a large sculpture garden, nicely manicured and landscaped, with running water down one end, separates some government buildings. The weather is warm, the sun nicely hot but not uncomfortable. It is a day, outside, just like every other day. And the people she— _they —_ pass are pleasantly in their own track of existence and don’t pay them any mind. No one looks at her as they walk, slowly and in silence, down the gravel paths. How can you not look, she wants to say, each time someone pushes past them. Can’t you see? Can’t you _see_ him?!

But she’s ignored. 

Beside her, Shikamaru isn’t looking around at the sculptures. Instead, he is keeping his gaze forward, unwavering. 

No, she thinks, once more, this is nothing like meeting a partner. It is nothing like being assigned to Nejiri. This man will be her husband. He will be the _father of her children_! 

_That_ is a very different thing. 

“Have you ever been here before?” She asks, fishing for words that usually come so easily to her. “To Sunagakure, I mean.”

Her voice even seems strange to herself. 

She’ll think, later, what a stupid question to ask. This is the first thing she has ever said to him. 

And no, of course he hasn’t. Unless he was here covertly before, the country would have never been open to him. 

“No,” he says. They aren’t casting much of a shadow, but she sees him shove his hands in his pockets. She wants to look at him, but she doesn’t think it’s appropriate to turn her head. “Never.”

It’s the first time she has heard him speak. His voice is lower than she expects it, surer. 

They walk in silence for a few more feet, the sound of running water cutting into the quiet afternoon. 

“Did you know —” she stops herself, rephrases. “What did they tell you?”

Shikamaru looks at her. She can feel the tilt of his head and the focus of his gaze on her face. It heats her cheek. It is intense. Then he looks back down. 

“I was given the dossier last week.” They keep walking. He takes a deep breath. She hears the trace, lightly, of the Fire accent. “I didn’t know until a few days ago that it was a joint mission. I thought you would be…” he trails off and she lets it lie. She’d thought the same thing.

A whole week! She’s known, actually _known_ , for a few hours. 

Is he disappointed? He could tell, obviously, that she hadn’t known. Is he hurt by her reaction, even if it was really only one look to Yashamaru? Is he as upset with the situation as she is?

He must be. They will not be on the same side. She is fighting for her country with someone who is not fighting for the same things. And even then, their countries are only _recent_ allies. What can that mean? How long can peace last? If there is a break, any sort of schism, the two of them will likely die at the hands of the other, under orders as such. No question. She knows the answer without having to find the logos for it. 

“And you?” He asks when she doesn’t say anything further. 

He knows her answer, she thinks, and wonders if he is only trying to be polite by asking.

“They told me this morning.”

He nods. She can see it in his shadow. 

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.” 

He looks younger than that. She bites her tongue. He’s not that young though. Old enough, surely. They were always old enough. 

She’d never imagined her husband would be younger. She’s never really considered having a husband or anything, of course, but what little she has thought about it, especially since they began courting her for this position, she never imagined her husband would be so young. She’s always imagined, if she's honest, someone bigger, someone lighter, more traditionally military, someone… _simpler_ than him. Although, she knows nothing about him, really, and she supposes she has no reason to think these things. 

They’ve exchanged no more than a few sentences when they come to the edge of the garden and the beginning of another building. It’s been fifteen minutes. He follows her as she turns down another path that will wind them back. 

Temari, feeling the urge to speak, starts adding a few comments here and there about some of the sculptures. She points out the ones inspired by generals, the ones commemorating certain events. Her favorite one is on the other end, she says. 

On this walk back, she looks at him more, sometimes even turning fully. 

He isn’t unattractive. He’s pretty — prettier than she is, certainly, though she doesn’t think of him as her type. His eyes are dark. The lashes, his brows, his irises themselves, are practically indistinguishable in the shade. It’s good hair. Thick and silky and she wants to touch it, vaguely; to touch him and to mar him and make him more reactionary to their predicament. Does that mean her children will have dark hair? Doesn’t that usually beat out blonde?

What a stupid thing to think, she acknowledges. What a trivial thing to focus on. What a ridiculous hypothetical when there is the much more pressing issue of actually being married to the person beside her (as a sham of a marriage as this is).

She’s heard, before, that when you watch one person all day — watch them from the moment they rise until the moment they fall asleep, each step, from making a sandwich to calling their mother — you fall in love with them, even just a little bit. 

She’s always, kind of, thought _yes_. 

Even though she has done similar things — she has staked people out for weeks — without falling in love, she has still thought the sentiment to be a little bit true. If you’re watching them, just for one day, not for any purpose or for further information, won’t you fall in love?

That feels stupid now. Now that she is actually in a position where she is with someone, will be with someone, from beginning to end for the rest of her life, she doesn’t agree with that theory at all. Love can’t be created by something like that. How stupid — a stupid theory posed by stupid people who have never been in any real position to experience it. 

They come to the end of the garden after a while. 

He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t look at her much. 

Temari doesn’t know what to do. 

_Shikamaru_ , she thinks, works over, tries out in different sentences. Shikamaru and Temari. The Nara’s. 

Perhaps it would be easier if they gave her a new name. She hasn’t used her real name in her work. Never. That’s usually how it works. 

But they used her real name now. They would use his. 

Easier, they said. Something real to tether you down. To remind you of your homeland, even though there would be no trace of her existing anywhere but in the Water. 

Nara. 

She doesn’t like it. Too simple. A short-cut off to her name. Too much of a lie. If she had been given another name, like she has when she has disappeared into a cover before, it would be much easier to become someone else. To become a wife and a mother and a citizen of the Water Lands. 

They enter the building and ride up the elevator once again in silence. 

Maybe it is a look at things to come. They will pass from one step to the next, together. Side by side. But in silence, with nothing in common except their proximity and acute solitariness. 

She loathes it. She wants to tell him more. But at the same time, she has nothing, she thinks, that she wants to say to him.

* * *

At dusk, Temari heads to her boyfriend’s apartment. It is on the other side of the city from where she lives, but she knows it is better to do in person. 

He isn’t home when she gets there and she doesn’t have a key. 

Temari’s hair is down and she brushes it out of her face. It is warm out, hotter now with no breeze, even though the sun has set, and she knows her face is glistening. 

She should have dressed better, she thinks, to break up with him. Shikamaru had dressed up to meet her. 

Oh well. He is not home. She will leave a note. 

Nevermind. She has nothing with her to write one. A neighbor may, or maybe the front office of his apartment complex? Temari knocks on the door one last time for good measure. He lives on the second story of the building and from where she stands on the landing, at least three dozen apartments from all sides of the courtyard can see her — otherwise she would pick the lock. 

It’s a waste of time, she thinks, to wait. But what else can she do? What _should_ she do?

Temari runs a hand through her hair and steps back from the door, stopping when she hits the railing of the balcony and sliding down to sit on the cement landing, knees curled to her chest. 

What else should she be doing right now? She could go hunt down Kankuro. Maybe she should go find Gaara? They don’t speak much, but in the last few years, they have been speaking more. She should have spent more time with him. Work always got in the way, but it didn’t always have to. She should have taken advantage of the proximity when she had the chance. 

Honestly though, she is scared that if she goes to see either of them, she may stay. 

She is lucky her parents aren’t around anymore. 

What about Shikamaru? Had he done this? He must have, already. Days ago. 

She wonders if his parents are alive. If he has siblings or a lover. She wonders who he is leaving behind to be with her. 

The sun is fully set by the time she hears footsteps coming up the stairs that she knows belong to her boyfriend. She reaches for the railing and pulls herself up. Best to make this quick. 

“Temari?” He asks, surprised to find her. “Were we supposed to meet?”

She doesn’t usually go out in her uniform — not socially, like this. He eyes her, concerned. “No,” she says, a slight smile. A little sad. “No plans. But I wanted to see if you had a minute to talk.”

He frowns, fiddles with the keys in his hand to find the right one. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

She puts a hand on his arm. She waits for him to fit the key in the lock and turn the handle. 

“Yes. I’m fine.”

* * *

Temari has no friends to part with, not really. They are all in the same service and are always coming in and out. Her absence will never, ever be questioned. Not aloud, at least. 

She told her boyfriend she was taking a new assignment and didn’t know when she would be back. Best to stop things now. 

He seemed to understand, nodding from his position at the kitchen table as she pressed back against the stove, keeping her eyes low. She has always warned him of this. Her work was always liable to take her away. She was always cancelling last minute. It is nothing new, nothing shocking. 

As he asks her a few perfunctory questions, she finds her mind wandering to Shikamaru again. 

She knows nothing about him (it’s no matter, she will never know anything real about him anyway), but she imagines how he did the same. 

How lucky she is, to not be in love! Perhaps he is. Perhaps he will spend the rest of their lives looking at her and wishing he were seeing someone else. 

Of course, she isn’t unhappy. Beyond the dread and trepidation and feeling of premature loss, there is a live wire of anticipation beneath her skin. This sort of assignment is what every trainee hopes for. It is the most important, the most sacrificial, the most imperative to the security of their country. It is an honor, she knows — she _believes —_ to be chosen. 

Going somewhere, serving her people like this, being asked to complete such a task, to be _trusted_ to this extent… she is anxious to begin, thrilled, to do something this important. Truly, an honor. 

* * *

Temari tucks into bed near midnight, but fails to fall asleep. How can she, knowing this is truly her last night home? 

She eventually gets up and wanders through her apartment, looking through different rooms, taking things off the shelf individually in turn and observing them. This is her whole life, accumulated in one place. Some of it is meaningless — there is no history to her tea kettle, but it feels difficult to knowingly part with. She bought it cheaply when she moved in. She bought it with a bulk of other appliances. If she were not leaving and the kettle broke, she would replace it without much thought. But now, leaving it, is harder. Do tea kettles look the same in Kiri? Do they look the same in Konoha? 

Tomorrow, her apartment will be cleaned out. Her items will not be kept. She has been told that she may box some items now, which will theoretically be delivered to her family — to Kankuro — when she leaves, but everything else will be tossed. No trace of her left. 

All of this will be gone. Lost. It’s not like she can take anything with her. Any connection — a photograph, a blanket made from yarn produced in the Wind, her mother’s favorite earrings that would be easily discoverable in pictures of her — can blow her cover. 

Nothing, it seems, of importance can come with her. 

Even the single bag she is allowed to bring won’t carry much more than her important documents — birth certificate, marriage certificate, driver’s license, passport. She can bring a few items of clothing. Boring things. Things no one will notice as being different. And then she will exchange those things for local clothes, for the things a young wife in Kiri would be expected to wear. 

Setting her suitcase on the bed, Temari begins to pack her bag. The choices take hours. 

She chooses a doll that her brother made for her when they were children. She has kept it in the back of her closet for years, and she has to blow off the dust before taking it down. She takes a grocery list written by her mother that she has kept since she was a child — the last thing her mother wrote. She ends up packing no clothes. She'll only take the ones she'll wear on the plane. They will give her everything. She has been told not to bring anything, not even a book. When she arrives in Kiri, slowly, she will learn everything new for herself. She will find new clothes and new lotion and try different brands until she learns what works for her. Maybe she will finally start wearing perfume. Didn’t college girls wear that?

—she wouldn’t know. She’s never been educated in anything like that.

Temari will have a lot to learn. She has been trained, for years, in how to act appropriately in casual situations. She’s learnt how to act like she _isn’t_ a soldier for a night, a party, a few weeks, at most. But here, for this, she will no longer be a soldier except for a few hours every now and then. She will be a housewife. A college girl. A scientist. Will she make her husband dinner? Will she clean the house and call the plumber and join the PTA of her kids’ elementary school? 

When she thinks of this, it is easier to pack so little. After all, all of these things belong to the Temari that belongs to Suna. The soldier. 

Temari Nara is simply a civilian of Kirigakure. A _spy_. She doesn’t need these things. These things won’t belong to her. 

Nothing will, she thinks, as she closes her suitcase.

* * *

“Coming.” She says the second time there is a knock on the door. She has only just finished packing. 

It is Yashamaru. She is surprised. He’s never been to her apartment. They aren’t particularly close. 

“What did you think of him?” Yashamaru asks as soon as she puts another cup before him. 

Temari pulls out a chair and sits opposite him. She doesn’t need to ask who he is talking about. 

She thinks on this. “He seems so young.” 

She’s older, but that doesn’t mean too much to her. The years have blurred. She isn’t much wiser now, she thinks, than she was at his age. She certainly wasn’t less capable, then. She doesn’t think his age is so young, really, but _he_ seems so young. 

Physically, he seems so fragile and unsure, but when he speaks, he doesn’t sound it. He hadn’t said much, but most of what he did say was definitive. His voice is sure, confident. 

“You’re both so young,” Yashamaru says. He pauses to take a sip of his coffee. “Still only kids.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. She wonders how much she can ask before it becomes inappropriate, before it weighs too far toward insubordination or contemplative disloyalty. She understands she will mean none of those things, but she doesn’t know him well enough to know if he will think so too. 

“I worry,” Temari says carefully. “I have been worried that, with him, I won’t be representing us. I will be representing Konoha.”

And if she isn’t, she thinks, then for the rest of her life, she will be completely alone. She can do it, of course. Going alone isn’t particularly uncommon, but it is a different existence. It is more temporary. It isn’t forever. She could manage. Just… well, she had been expecting an ally. 

“We share our interests when it comes to the Water and the Water Lands Alliance. You will represent the same things.”

“Right now. But maybe not always. How can I trust him, marry him, if he isn’t loyal to us?”

Yashamaru turns his mug in his hand. “You know,” he says, watching her, “he is in the same position.”

Temari thinks about him. Thinks about what the day holds. Thinks about her future. 

“He doesn’t represent us. We are not furthering the same interests. _He_ is not meant to be my job.”

Yashamaru nods; thinks about it. “The intention of your mission, in the end, is to keep peace here. To keep us from being dominated by the Water Lands Alliance. Part of that peace is keeping our alliance with Konohagakure. It is your job. He was always going to be part of it.”

“Did you know,” she asks, voicing what she has been considering since the beginning, “that it was him? That, when I was sent out, it wouldn’t be with someone from the academy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Yashamaru takes another sip of coffee. “It’s not random, Temari. You’re here because we think you’re the best person for this.” He blinks, looks at her under heavy lids. “You’re not a guinea pig. This isn’t a test-case. You should understand: you’re the golden product. You’re one of the most important sleepers we will have. You’re not just operating in one country, but in two.”

Not in one, but two. That’s what she means! She will always be against him. Your enemy’s enemy may be your friend… but they’re still an enemy… she is still, now always, alone.

“How can I relate to him? My partner is supposed to serve as a tether. That’s what you taught us day one of training. No matter what scenario, they are the ones you count on.”

“It may be hard to see right now, but Nara… he is exactly like you. This arrangement is new for him as well. He _is_ your ally, your comrade, your husband.”

Temari inhales. It’s placations, maybe, but it does comfort her. 

Sensing the conversation is over, Yashamaru pushes his mug, still mostly full, back to her. 

“You should see your brothers, before you go.”

She didn’t notice anyone following her last night, but they must have been. 

“It will be hard,” her uncle says, standing. “But if you don’t, you will regret it.” He raises his arms over his head and stretches. And then, for the first time since she was a child, Yashamaru walks over to her side of the table. She stands as he approaches and accepts his hug. It is the only one, probably, she will receive. 

His embrace is warm and strong and she wants to hold on. Maybe, she thinks, this will be the last time someone touches her like this, holds her for no reason other than express comfort. 

“A car will be by at eight.” He says as he pulls away. “You will head right to the airport.”

Yashamaru stands back. His eyes are sad as they meet her own.

She remembers, when she was younger, how often he was around. But then they grew up. People die and people change and now it’s been years, she thinks, since she has actually seen him; longer, since they’ve touched. 

He turns, slowly, and begins making his way to the front door. 

“Goodbye, Temari.”

She swallows. “Goodbye, uncle.”

* * *

“There,” Shikamaru says as the shutter clicks. 

Temari pays mind to keep her hands from touching his as she reaches for the camera. 

She turns it over in her hand. It was given to them a few hours before. This is the second photograph taken. It’ll be backlit though, as the airplane window is open behind her. 

She hands him back the camera. “One more, let me close this.”

She pulls the shutter closed, shifts in her seat so she is looking over her shoulder, and grins. 

“That’s the one,” he says, sounding pleased, sounding like a newlywed. 

Temari keeps smiling as she straightens in her seat and then leans back into it. They flew from Suna into Iwa. Now they’ve switched passports and everything else they had on them from _before_. Now, her license says _Temari Nara_ and her address is somewhere in Kiri and she is sitting beside her husband of a few days on her way to their honeymoon. 

Shikamaru is supposed to take some photos of the trip. Start documenting now, they were told in the handoff at the airport.

He has put away the camera and is settling back in his seat too. Her elbow hits his on the arm rest and their forearms are almost pressed against each other. He’s hotter than her, probably unused to such extended sunshine, and she can feel the heat radiating off him. 

Temari looks down at his hand a few inches from hers. His wedding ring is just new enough to slightly reflect the lights above them. She doesn’t like looking at hers.

She is in a good mood though. There is a thrill to it all. Shikamaru is smiling; to himself, to her. They’ve been waiting for this for years. It is finally happening and, despite their fears, their mutual excitement is palpable. 

“How are you?” He asks, not looking at her, and not seeming to be looking for conversation either. 

“Happy,” she says, only half-lying. The plane is silent and there is no question they are being listened to,  being overheard by other passengers. Couples always were.

He smiles through his exhale, turns his head to the roof of the cabin. “Really?”

Temari leans over, taps her shoulder against his, and then settles back. “I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”

“Oh,” facetious, “have you? Since when?”

“Ten months. Since you proposed.”

“I’m sure you knew I was going to,” he says, blinking up at the ceiling. “Be honest.”

“Fine. Since the moment we met.” 

“Five years is a long time to wait.”

She nods, glances over at him. “Yes,” she confirms, and he looks at her through the corner of his eyes. “Five years. I’ve been patient.”

They have reservations for a resort on Jiro Island. Popular among honeymooners, she’s been told. Temari has never been to a resort before. She’s never actually been to the sea, but she doesn’t say that to Shikamaru. They are supposed to be from the Water. She won’t say anything like that, ever. 

After they arrive, they will spend around two weeks in Jiro. It’s both an easy cover — getting married, going on a honeymoon, and then coming home and moving into a new house with new jobs and new obligations as young newlyweds burgeoning into the adult world — and a convenient one. They have two weeks now to get to know each other; to come back and begin work without having to worry about appearing too distant or despondent. If they were going straight to Kiri now, they’d have to be complete strangers. At least in two weeks, they’ll (hopefully) have figured out how to work together. Maybe they’ll even like each other.

“Me too,” Shikamaru says after a minute. The plane is moving now, readying itself for takeoff. She hasn’t expected him to respond, thinking the conversation, the minor back and forth checking her memory, over. He is still looking at the ceiling of the plane. He bends his wrist and takes her hand, covering, just slightly, her fingers with his. His wedding ring digs into her flesh. “I’ve been patient for a long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to everyone on tumblr who helped me with the little things. and an overwhelming thank you to appy and carol for the edits and thorough discussions.


	2. Chapter 2

Temari is trying to keep her face turned to the front and her eyes steady on the line of Shikamaru’s shoulders, but there are so many distractions. Everything around her is new — the coloring of the hallways and the sounds of waves in the distance and the feeling of humidity in the swell of her hands. 

She’s learned that there is a scent to the ocean — of course, that makes sense — but no one ever _told_ her that before. There is a thickness in the air, like there is salt floating around, permeating her skin, her hair, her nostrils. Shikamaru seems unaffected, but when he does look back at her, every now and then, he is smiling too, just slightly. 

She wonders how much of this place is simply the resort or the Water Lands themselves. She shouldn’t act so awed in public until she knows more. Or maybe not. Maybe here, her honeymoon, is different. Or it isn’t… she doesn’t know yet.

Temari bites her tongue. Suddenly she feels as though she knows very little. About anything. 

Maybe she isn’t ready for this. 

Shikamaru and the bellhop guiding them come to a stop in front of a door. She stands beside Shikamaru. It’s a dark oak, stark, like all the other doors, against the white washed walls. 

“Here,” the bellhop says, and unlocks the door with an old-fashioned key. He pushes it open and allows them to walk in before reaching for their bags and following. He is able to do it on his own and so she offers him no help.

Temari pauses inside the room. It’s smaller than she’s expecting, but larger than her bedroom back home. The bed in the middle of the room is big and plush, and the far wall is almost entirely taken up by a sliding glass door. There must be a balcony outside, but she can’t see it in the dark. 

She turns around. Her heart is pounding. It’s not really her home yet, but a part of her feels like saying _finally_. 

Shikamaru reaches into a pocket to produce a wallet. It’s black and boring and looks weathered even though it was given to him in Iwa. He’d used it for their plane tickets earlier. He doesn’t look at her at all now, but flips through it and produces a few bills to hand to the bellhop. The man takes them, nods at Shikamaru, doesn’t look at Temari, and leaves.

“You gave him a tip?”

He begins to put his wallet back in his pants and then stops, looks at it, and tosses it onto the dresser.

“You’re supposed to tip.”

She knows about restaurants, but not the bellhop. Isn’t he just doing his job? She’d been more than willing (would have preferred, actually) to carry her own things through the hotel. 

“Everyone?”

Shikamaru shrugs. He still isn’t looking at her. “A lot of people. He was waiting for it.”

“You’ll look shitty if you’re just handing money out. We’re not rich, you know.”

He doesn’t react to her, but lies down on the bed, arms widespread, eyes at the ceiling. “Maybe play it by ear?”

Temari rolls her eyes. Even Shikamaru, who she thinks she may like a little less the longer she is near him, can’t bring her down. She ignores him and goes to slide open the glass door. The air hits her, much as it had the moment they stepped out of the airport, like a punch to the gut: suddenly she can’t breathe. She isn’t sure what it is — maybe the humidity or the heat or the spray of salt — but it’s like nothing she has ever felt. She steps forward to drop her forearms on the balcony’s metal railing.

“I can hear it,” she says, mostly to herself. “It must be only fifty yards away, a hundred at the most.”

“Wait until morning.”

She doesn’t listen to him. The waves — that’s what they are, aren’t they? — hit the beach methodically. Every few seconds. She can visualize it. She can almost taste it. Will the water be warm? It may be cold, but it is so warm here, it is hard to picture it any other way. 

Temari glances back when she hears a noise. Shikamaru has risen from the bed and is going through his suitcase. He must be tired. He moves like it; like he is weary. She turns back. She will give him some privacy. After all, he is a complete stranger. She watches the blackness and listens to the waves. There are clouds covering the stars tonight. The woman at the front desk said it may rain. 

Seeing Shikamaru begin preparing for bed sobers her. It reminds her of who she is and where she is and what she is supposed to be doing. And she is tired too. Tired down to her bones. She hasn’t slept in over thirty-six hours, but it’s more than that. It will always be more than that. She thinks she may sleep tonight — she has been waiting for it, honestly — but in a bed beside a strange man, how much real sleep (the deep, unconscious, full bodied kind) can she actually get, even with the emotional disembowelment of the past two days? She has also been dreading it. They have touched before, sure, but that was never more than a hand on a shoulder or a slight hand-hold, and all of those were for an audience. That is very different than privately sleeping beside him. 

She also doesn't know what else is meant to happen. They don't prepare them for this. When they reserved the hotel and bought tickets for the honeymoon, Suna didn't goes as far as to schedule sex between them. But she knows, traditionally, what the first night might mean. She understands the theory of consummation, even if they're not really married in the first place. She can feel in, vaguely, like a faint buzz in her ears. 

Is something more meant to happen, even though they won't have children for years? She doesn't know. Maybe, neither does he. 

Either way, he is staying in the room, not giving her any inclination except a general disinterest in her. 

She wonders why he didn’t want to come out here to the balcony. Isn’t he excited too? She has felt his vim, coming off him, sporadically since they left the Wind. Or maybe he has been here before and sees no fascination with the ocean? Is he unfazed by it? Has he seen water like this before? The wars started before she was born. She has never been close to coming here. Or anywhere like it. She’d never have been allowed to. And she’d supposed it was the same for him too, but maybe not. Maybe in this too, like in everything, they are different. After all, Konoha didn’t join until later. Maybe, when he was young, he took nice vacations to the ocean with his nice, happy family in their nice, happy world. She thinks, absently, staring out into the abyss of black sky and sea, that if she were with a Suna boy, he would be out here too, looking at everything she cannot see.

When she does turn back, Shikamaru is already in bed. He has chosen the right side and is reading a book. 

“Are you okay?”

He glances at her over the top of his book. She can’t make out what it is. He raises his brows. He is nervous. She can feel it. Again, like yesterday in the sculpture garden. She can’t see him under the covers, but he is wearing a gray tee-shirt. His hair is still tied back.

“Tired,” he says. She believes it, but knows there is certainly more he could have said. She stares at him for a moment until he grows uncomfortable and frowns. She isn’t sure what she is looking for though, so she steps inside and finds her suitcase.

* * *

Temari comes to herself slowly so that, when she does eventually open her eyes, she feels as though she must have been awake for some time. It’s still dark out. She couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. 

She is immediately aware of the situation. This is not her bed. She is sleeping beside someone. Shikamaru. She is on her honeymoon. 

Considering this, Temari blinks, carefully, to focus her vision. She is pressed far to the edge of the mattress, but is lying on her side facing the middle. Far on the other side, back to her, is Shikamaru. He is awake, judging by the slow and heavy rise and fall of his shoulders. He is sitting on the end of the bed, head in his hands. The bed is high off the ground, but he has long legs, and she imagines his bare feet are planted on the wood flooring. There’s no reason to consider his feet on the floor first, but she finds herself visualizing the image anyway.

He hasn’t said anything. She had been sure he was asleep earlier. How long he has been up?

Maybe she should say something? Perhaps she should try to comfort him. Or maybe it is best she pretends to be asleep? Let his vulnerability lie? 

After a few minutes in which he doesn’t move or make any apparent gestures to rectify the situation, Temari settles on doing the latter and she closes her eyes, resettling and pulling the blankets closer to her chest. It doesn’t take her long to go back to sleep. 

* * *

“Aren’t you going to burn?” 

She can tell he doesn’t like the question. He doesn’t like, in general, that she is interrupting him. They’ve been sitting in silence for hours though, isn’t he bored? Half the morning he has spent napping, or at least lying down with his eyes closed, and the other half reading his book. It’s on the history of Jiro. It doesn’t look particularly interesting — a big book with small print and, in what few glances she has taken when he is slightly turning it her way, mostly about the development of roads. Fun.

“I’m wearing a shirt.”

She rolls her eyes, and then rolls her whole body over, resettling on her stomach. She is lying on a towel, but she can still feel the shifting of the sand beneath her. Beach dunes are different than desert dunes. Less fine. Wetter. Hot in a different way. 

He is so white, so pale across his whole chest and stomach that, she thinks, even if he wearing a shirt now, he still must be burning. Except he isn’t and she, already tan, can feel the redness beginning on her shoulders. Perhaps it is time to raise up the umbrella the resort had given them. 

She isn’t worried for him — she doesn’t _worry_ for him — but she is thinking about it as they lay out on the beach. 

Maybe she should get back in the water? 

It feels good to be here — good to lay back and relax and to finally, _finally_ experience the ocean (and it is an Experience). But it also is hard. She is itching to do _something_. What is the point, she feels, knowing she is asking a stupid question when she already _knows_ the answer, of sitting around here doing nothing when she is sacrificing so much to _do something_. 

Of course, the less they do, the safer they are. And the safer they are, the _more_ they can do. She isn’t here for pleasure. The honeymoon is part of her cover. Part of their start. Sitting beside him, darkening her skin and being seen enjoying time with her husband, happy, is very much a part of this job. She just struggles, lying there so placidly, to feel as though she is doing something worthwhile. Surely this will be the vast, vast majority of her life: sitting around and waiting to do something for her country. She understands this. She _knows_ this. Still. _Still_. 

Temari exhales and turns her head the other direction, away from where he is lying beside her. This is the third day, with the day they met and yesterday traveling, that she has spent completely by his side, but they have hardly spoken. She knows nothing about him. She isn’t supposed to, not in any meaningful way, so it’s no fault, she thinks. But even if his presence isn’t as vexingly uncomfortable as it was just hours ago, he remains a stranger to her. 

The sun touches her cheek, warms her jaw. The sound of the waves — greater, only a few feet from them — and the mingling voices of other tourists meandering around the beach drown out the sound of him turning the pages of this book. 

This morning went fine. Breakfast was fine. They went over a brochure from the hotel, discussed places to visit, things to do. They won’t do any of these things, but it was something easy to discuss in public. The only thing she learned about him is that he is pretty lazy — he optioned doing none of the activities that involved any sort of physical exertion… no hiking or scuba-diving or anything that she, in a different world, in a different circumstance, would have wanted to do. 

Well, he may not be lazy. She doesn’t know. Everything he says could be a lie. He could be, before her eyes, becoming someone else. Someone other than who he really is. She is, she thinks, working to do the exact same. She is trying to be sure and quiet and unobtrusive. All things she isn’t really, she knows. 

Maybe this would be easier if he were more her type. She wishes he were — she wishes that he were just someone that she’s more attracted to. She wishes he had more energy and seemed happier and more ready to try than he is. He seems like a nice enough guy, and she is sure they will work it out — they must, of course — but it will never be more. And maybe it could have been, if they were more compatible. But they aren’t. 

And they won’t be. 

It’s getting too hot. 

“Do you want to go in the water?”

She can hear Shikamaru shift on the towel beside her. “No.”

Temari turns her head again, resting her cheek on her folded hands, squinting to try to focus him in against the sun above. “You’re not going to go in at all?”

He has been here, she thinks again. He must have been here before. She wants to know, wants to find one more thing separating them (as though she needs to even _search_ for one more fact to add to their schism), but she can’t ask. He can never say… though even if he could, she doubts he would. 

Shikamaru doesn’t turn to look at her, eyes focused on his page. “Maybe when I finish.”

She sighs. Flips onto her back. There is sand pressed into her stomach, deeper in her belly button. “What are you reading?”

She knows, but thinks perhaps she should ask. It feels stilted even to her though. Everything they say feels unnatural.

“It’s about the development of the island.”

Temari raises a hand to her eyes, trying to keep looking at him while not being blinded by the glare of the sky. “Why are you reading it?”

Shikamaru glances at her, eyes narrowed, and then quickly looks back to the book. “For exploring,” he says, as though they will ever actually hike through the jungle. “There are more books in the gift shop and a store in town if you’d like me to go buy you one.”

Temari holds her breath, watches him. “I don’t read much.”

Shikamaru doesn’t look at her now, but she can feel him hold his breath, just for an extra second. He is unimpressed. She can feel his judgement, his distaste, for her. 

Temari sits up and brushes off the bits of sand stuck to her. She is going to get back in the water and then eventually, when she rallies, she will come back to the towel and dry off in the sun until she gets too hot again, and then she will repeat the whole process. 

He ignores her as she stands and walks off down the beach. 

This is fine, she thinks. It’s fine. It’s bearable.

* * *

Everything is much easier when there is alcohol involved. It’s not news — she has always known this. She has used it to her advantage, both for her and for a mark, too many times to count. It’s already making a difference now, with Shikamaru, as they go through dinner. It is easier, in the lamplight of the outdoor restaurant, to meet his eyes, to touch his arm, to smile at his words. 

All afternoon, as they laid in the sun and hardly exchanged more than one sentence, she had promised herself she would work harder. She would make an effort to work harder. To not, as she does half the time, dislike looking at him. 

A part of her does hate him. She _hates_ him. Resents him for putting her here, for being here beside her. She blames him and, honestly, wishes it were someone else. Someone from Suna. Someone who wanted to be with _her_. Someone who wouldn’t make her feel so alone. 

But of course she knows, she always knows, that she chose this. He never directed her in any way. He doesn’t direct her now — he mostly stays out of her way. She made this choice, even knowing the choice included him. She needs to make an effort, even if he won’t. Even if she doesn’t want to. 

And it’s easier when she drinks. Easier to touch and to laugh and to look. Their chairs are closer than usual, the restaurant is watching them, the waitress congratulating them. He rests his hand on her forearm, every now and then, and it’s easy, for only a second, even if the touch is really only just a touch. 

Shikamaru is looser too. He speaks more. He answers her questions in full sentences. He smiles, to himself, when she speaks. And sometimes, rarely, she catches the way his eyes shine and she likes it.

“We should visit more museums,” she says, as though they have already spent a life together opting not to. “When we get back home.”

“Why? To wander around and look at art we could see in a book?”

“They have other things at museums. It doesn’t have to be fine art.”

Shikamaru licks his lips and then looks down where hand is resting on the table, measuring his words for only a second. “I didn’t know you were so artistically inclined.”

“I’m not.” She says. “Not as much as I wish I were.” 

“You could be,” he supplies, but doesn’t pursue it further. She thinks he means that she can be someone else now. She agrees.

“I’d like to learn more,” she says. And she is honest about that. “Everything in my life has always been very directive, purposeful.” She wonders if he thinks she is lying. She isn’t, mostly. “I’d like to immerse myself more.” It’s painfully clear, having been here almost one whole day, what she has been taught and what she has studied are very different than what is actually here. The attitude of the people is different. _Lighter_. Maybe that is why he is reading so diligently — maybe he was unprepared for it too? She doesn’t know. Konoha is not like Suna. They don’t have much in common at all. 

Shikamaru nods, glances up at her. “I think art — an appreciation for it — is lacking for me too. It’s never something I’ve been able to make myself interested in.”

She smiles and sips her cocktail. “We can learn together.”

“Our children can be artists.”

“Not a successful career for all of them,” she continues. They’re not serious. She doesn’t imagine there will be that kind of opportunity. 

“All of them?” Shikamaru smiles more and leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. Out of the corner of her eye, Temari sees a woman dining nearby focus her attention on him. The woman isn’t looking away. It’s not a casual glance. “Surely you mean ‘both’?”

Temari tilts her chin and ignores the woman looking at them. She thinks the woman is only eyeing Shikamaru, or maybe both of them, but either way, she doesn’t see anything threatening in it. Shikamaru should see her too and Temari will let him make his own evaluation. 

“I want a big family,” she says quietly, flirtatiously. “Lots of kids.”

“No, no, that’s too much work,” he shakes his head, speaking quietly so that she has to lean in to hear him.“Two. A girl and then a boy.”

“That’s a very specific ask for such an uncontrollable event.”

The corner of his lip turns up into a small smirk. He looks different than he has all day. She thinks he enjoys this — being outwardly annoying and not just annoying in his silence and dismissive demeanor. 

It is a joke, with a hint of danger, and a hint of sadness. They _will_ have these children, even if they don’t want them with each other. And they have no choice in the matter. The reality of it is numbed by the alcohol though, and they have both clearly settled into the flirtation of it. 

“Two. Max.”

Temari takes the extra step, leans in so all she has to do is close her eyes to make any further intention known, and he, in kind, as he should, reciprocates her movement. She can feel the anticipation of him on her lips. “Ridiculous.” She enunciates sharply. And then she pulls away and watches as Shikamaru watches her.

She wonders if he has a sibling. She has two and always wished there were more of them. Maybe he grew up well with an older sister and wants to recreate the scenario. Maybe he loves his parents and wants to model his life after his own childhood. 

Maybe he is making it all up. She doesn’t think either scenario is any more likely than the other. 

“You go out of your way to be contrary.”

“You make it easy.” She says, still staring at him. And then adds, for good measure: “always have.”

* * *

She feels lightheaded as she watches Shikamaru twist the key in the lock. How old is this hotel? Shouldn’t they use a keycard? She hasn’t seen an actual key unlock a hotel door in ages. 

Shikamaru’s feet on the wood floor are loud as they enter; louder than the buzz in her ears. She steps in and he locks the door behind her. Temari goes straight across the room for the sliding door to the balcony. Their room is balmy, but outside it is so much nicer. 

Shikamaru, seemingly exhausted, falls onto the foot of the bed, like he did last night when they arrived. 

Temari opens the balcony up and lets the breeze in. 

“It’s so much nicer,” she says, standing in the doorway. “I’d prefer to sleep out there.”

She glances back to see he has sat up and is taking off his shoes. His hair looks like it is about to fall out of the tie. She hasn’t actually seen it down yet. Even after he showered this morning, by the time he emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, his hair was back up. Maybe he never took it down in the first place? 

“Mind the screen,” he says, leaning forward to fully slip off his shoes, “mosquitos will fly in if you don’t close it.”

She huffs. He may be right — she already has bites on her arms from the walk back to the resort — but she doesn’t think mosquitos will come this close to the water with the breeze coming off it. Closing the screen is nothing though. Yes. She is going to compromise more. 

Temari steps aside and pulls the screen closed. It’s not as nice, but it’s no matter now that it’s dark out. Not as good a way to wake up though. 

“Everyone is so easy here,” she says, staring out the screen door at the blackness before her. “It’s all so easy for them.”

“Having the ocean doesn’t make anything easier.”

She turns around. His back is curved, his arms hung between his spread legs. She ignores the comment.

“You see it too, don’t you?”

Shikamaru looks at her and shrugs. “They’re on vacation.”

“Don’t you feel it?”

He is smiling at her, softly, but doesn’t speak. 

“They’re so comfortable,” she continues. She thinks of the people at the beach and at the breakfast buffet. It’s in the way they walk, the way they smile at nothing, the way they never look around. “I recognize this is a resort. But. _Shikamaru_. They’re civilians, sure, but they act as though there is no possibility of threat at all. We always are,” she says, stepping forward. “People live their lives, but… don’t you _feel_ it? We feel it.” She says it like they are from the same place. Like, by virtue of not being from _here_ , they might have something in common. “An anticipation in the air. A strength. They don’t have that here.”

He sighs and looks away. He tips his head to the ceiling and doesn’t watch as she comes to sit beside him at the foot of the bed. Her feet don’t touch the ground. 

“They have strong allies here.” He says it thoughtfully, after a pause long enough that she had assumed the conversation over. She wouldn’t have said anything in the first place, not right now, if she were sober. “They are well protected.”

They haven’t suffered, she thinks. They didn’t partake in the wars initially. They sat patiently, letting their old allies, their once strong treaties, break, waiting until others were weak enough that they could take whatever they wanted to. They sacrificed nothing. And they sat there, watching the rest of the world burn, and felt righteous in their hesitance. 

“And they have such nice things.” Temari swallows, eyes sweeping over the dresser and the television, the sound of waves crashing outside. “This room wasn’t event that expensive!”

Shikamaru laughs. “And the food.”

“It’s better than I thought it was going to be.” She’s never had fresh fish before. “I’m so glad.”

He closes his eyes and the movement prompts her to look at him. She takes in the glow of his face in the balmy heat, the line of his mouth and set of his lips. 

She is warm — hot, even. And, she thinks, he isn’t so disgusting. It could be much worse. 

This would be easier if she were meant to seduce him. She knows how to do that. She knows what to say and how to act and how to touch. She knows how to make him want her. But she won’t use any of these things. He probably knows the exact same things anyway. It’s easy enough. 

This doesn’t disgust her. It _would_ be worse. 

But it would be easier, if he were a mark. 

He smells good. Warm, like the sunshine they’d been in all day. 

Temari, slowly, looking down and following her own movement with her eye, reaches out with her left hand and places it on his knee. She feels him take a breath, feels him look down and focus his eyes on her hand. There is a pause. And then Shikamaru straightens. 

He doesn’t look at her when he says it. He doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes on her hand. It looks small on his leg even though she always thinks of him as being so skinny. 

“Not yet,” he says, softly. “I’m not ready.”

She takes her hand off his leg and clasps her palms together tightly. Temari holds her breath. 

It’s only a second and then she stands up, the bed squeaking slightly with the loss of her weight, and she walks into the bathroom. She doesn’t exhale until the door is closed behind her. 

She feels the blow even though there is nothing to really take offense at. It’s not as though she _wanted_ —

What does he mean? Temari leans back against the door, tipping her head up until it hits the wood. The light is fluorescent and it hurts her eyes. She takes a deep breath. What does he mean by that? Surely he’s had sex. Surely he isn’t a virgin? He is young enough, perhaps, but would he really never have done this? For work? _Especially_ if he was so inexperienced? 

She straightens and steps to the sink, turning it on and running her hands beneath it. It would have been a waste, she thinks, on their part. On Konoha’s. He could have done so much. He is, in many ways, very attractive.

She turns off the water and grips the sides of the sink, hands still wet. She squeezes the ceramic, paying attention to the feeling of drops rolling down her skin and falling to the floor. 

She has never actually been rejected before. 

Though to be fair, she has never made a move without thinking the person was hoping for it. She hadn’t thought he was, really. She had just thought — well, if they must. She didn’t suppose he wanted to. She didn’t really want to. 

There is nothing to be offended at, really. They are both in the same circumstances. 

Two more breaths. Slow, practiced. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. 

When she comes out of the bathroom, Shikamaru is fishing through the drawer he had put his clothes in last night. He is already in his pajamas — they’re issued, like everything they own. He doesn’t say anything when she walks out and pulls the ties out of her hair. He just straightens and walks past her to the bathroom. She stands still as the door closes and the water begins to run, shoulders rigid. 

It doesn’t feel nearly as awkward as she had expected. He hadn’t looked at her, but she doesn’t think he is holding anything against her. 

Temari goes to find her own pajamas, her own issued silk set. On the way, she reaches for the newspaper she’d grabbed from the front desk that morning. If he wanted to read in bed in silence, she could do the same. This could be their routine. This could be who she is now. 

* * *

When she wakes up this time, after struggling for hours to fall asleep, she knows what she will see. She has been in and out of sleep all night with his rolling around, and when she finally does wake up, she sees his side of the bed empty. 

He hasn’t slept again. She feels badly about it. She will be nicer in the morning. She will work harder. She needs to remember, in real time, even if he isn’t the mark, he is part of the job. _This_ is the job. 

* * *

Things stay quiet in the morning. They will walk around today instead of spending it all at the beach. She needs a second swimsuit and she only has the one dress she'd arrived in. She’s worn it both yesterday and today. And Shikamaru wants toothpaste that doesn’t taste like anise. That’s the goal for right now, though there are many things (many material things) they will need to buy and exchange over the coming months. 

They sit at a table by the window, mostly by themselves, at the breakfast buffet. She has finished eating and is sipping her coffee, but he has hardly touched his food. He is turning over berries on his plate, using his fork to move them around instead of eating anything. The thrill of beginning their assignment has dimmed as they settle into the rest of their lives. There is nothing but practical silence now.

They haven’t spoken about what happened last night. They probably never will. But it is no matter. He isn’t any different this morning than he ever was. There is nothing different _from_ that event — nothing consequential, except that she will be more careful now. She will work harder, she aspires, to understand him. 

It’s difficult though — difficult to get to know someone, to be forced to know someone, when your only connection is something that can’t even be discussed. _If_ their only similarity is their _otherness_ , it is difficult when that cause can hardly be mentioned. 

She must find a way though. She must. They must find something in common. 

Shikamaru looks absolutely worn. He is staring out the window, just playing with his food. He hasn’t eaten much since they met. He must be starving. She watches him. His eyes are dark and are made more prominently so by the darkness beneath them now. He will have to find a way to sleep. He will. There is no other option. 

Temari wants to help, but she isn’t sure what to say. They share a bed and a surname, but they’re complete strangers. 

He must have been paying more attention than she gave him credit for though. The moment she finishes her coffee, he drops his fork and pushes his chair away from the table. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, and without waiting for any response, stands. “Let me run up to the room. Get the camera and some money.”

Strangers. 

“Shikamaru.”

He glances down, a slight crease to his brow. 

She looks at him from bottom to top, eyes going from the table to the top of his thighs all the way over his form to meet his eyes. The second she does, he sits back down and reaches across the table for where her hand is still clutching her empty coffee mug. He grabs it, holding half her palm in his, brow heavily furrowed, all care and attention on her. “Is everything okay?”

She pulls away too quickly. And then he sobers. He gets more serious. He relaxes the set of his face and only the slightest narrowing of his eyes demonstrates his interest in what she is going to say. He stops, for a second, playing the husband. He isn’t acting now. 

Temari means to break to the ice. She wants to do something. She will walk the line of what she can and can’t say to him, but with her toes edging over into breaking the rules. But she doesn’t know what else to do. She wants him to understand. It’s only something she understands half the time as it is. But she wants him to know this, to impress upon him _more_ than she is allowed to. 

Everything is so stifled between them. It’s all calculated. From both of them. She can tell, in the way he speaks to her. 

She can’t quite articulate, even to herself, what she wants from him. She wants to _fight_ him. She wants to see something from him that is more than… _this_. He is so easy, so absent and dismissive — but not cruel. But even that, though worse, would at least be _something._ This is so even keel, so palpably stale, so static, that she can’t stand it. She doesn’t know what she wants except that she wants _more_. 

“I didn’t want this either,” Temari says. It is just above a whisper and she can tell Shikamaru is caught between holding her eye when she is clearly asking for his attention and checking around to confirm who might be near them. She’s never said anything like this to him though. Neither of them has. It’s never been anything but cordial. Nothing but trivial. And with that, he decides and leans in to hear clearly what she is saying. “I’d do anything — I want…” she stops, hoping he can finish her sentence. “More than I don’t want this.”

She’ll always choose her country and so she has chosen this. 

“I know,” he says quickly, low, in a way he hasn’t spoken to her before. He is surprised, fully taken aback at what she is saying. She had no intention of saying it — of speaking so far — but she is still taken that he is finding this completely out of the blue. “I didn’t mean to make you think….”

Suddenly, Temari is struck by the image of her boyfriend. She had thought of him some yesterday, but not so tangibly. But now she thinks of him, she thinks of the other evening in Suna waiting on the balcony of his place for him to come home. She had been terrified. The night had been nice and the stars clear. It was only a few days ago, but now it feels like ages. She has a family. She had one. She knows he did too. She thinks of them.

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

To serve, she means. He knows. 

He reaches his hand, left on the table from where she pulled it away, an inch forward to beckon her, to ask her to come back. 

Temari lifts her hands from her lap and leaves it inches from his. He reaches, takes her, holds her wrist and rests his fingers against her pulse. She doesn’t think he is gauging anything about her. He is just touching her. 

“Together.” He says, and means much more than the word itself would imply. 

His eyes are so dark it is hard to hold their attention for this long. After a moment though, Shikamaru exhales and looks down, looking at her wrist, his wedding ring. It’s only for a few seconds. She has no idea what he is thinking when he looks at it. Then he stands back up and walks away. 

Temari keeps her arm on the table, right where he'd left it. She doesn’t watch him disappear further into the hotel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to appy and carol. always around to talk!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enormous thanks to appy and carol

There is a touch to her back, flat in the middle. It’s not often a part of her that anyone would touch except in very certain situations. His palm is cool against her skin, but it stings too. She knows it’s Shikamaru, but she is still trepidatious of the touch. Wary, Temari opens one eye. 

“You fell asleep.”

“You should have put up the umbrella,” she mutters, gritting her teeth as he lifts his hand away from her. Even the loss of it hurts. Everything burns. She feels the dryness, the level of heat sitting inside her skin. Shikamaru is kneeling over her, eyes narrowed at her back. 

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

She groans, spreads her hands by her shoulders and pushes up. “Ah.” Each movement hurts. 

“It’s bad,” he says. “You’ll probably blister by your shoulders.”

Temari sits up, crossing her legs below her. Even the backs of them are burnt. “Yeah,” she breathes, annoyed. “I feel it.”

Shikamaru falls back onto his heels and rubs a hand over his eyes, like he too is annoyed by her sunburn. 

Asshole.

“Stay here, under the shade. I’ll go into town and get something for you.”

She groans. She feels like requesting he buy pain medication, not balm. “They’ll have it at the hotel.”

“It’s cheaper in town.” 

Temari rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything as he stands and raises the umbrella (too late) and then heads off with a wave of his wrist.

She lays back down on her stomach, making sure every part of her is under the shade. It hurts to move, but she can’t get into any other position without pain, and staying here in the sun is the worst possible solution. 

They have only a few more days in Jiro. It’s been almost two weeks since they arrived. Those first days felt like they lasted lifetimes — eons, the hours endless and so slow moving, she felt aged in just those three days. Now though, once routine has settled in, they pass calmly from one to the other with no definition between them. The trip feels as though it is naturally coming to a conclusion. It is going to end soon and it feels right, as though this brief vacation is over, she has sufficiently gotten her time off, and it is now time to return to her everyday life. 

Of course, that isn’t true. She knows it’s not over; knows that, when they say they are returning home, they don’t mean it. The home they are returning to is more unknown than this place. A true undiscovered land. It is something new, not a return. They will leave and go live their full lives — the _rest_ of their lives, probably, in a new place, whereas this was only a minor digression. 

She has been mostly unhappy here, yet she worries she will miss this soon. There are possibilities here, possibilities of how their life will be, of how they will work and what they will be asked to do. Once they settle, it will all be resolved and she may be unhappier than she is now. 

Temari also _wants_ to settle though. She desires the consistency and perfunctory practice of work. And she and Shikamaru will, hopefully, actually have assignments greater than just their marriage and their cover. It’s been twelve days since she has even exerted any real physical energy and she _itches_ for it. 

She shifts under the shade and reaches for Shikamaru’s things to get his bottle of water. He’s hardly had any of it. He should probably drink more. She would tell him so, but they are working on being nicer. 

And things are easier, with him. He is sleeping, more, she thinks. Or at least, she isn’t waking up to him rolling around in the middle of the night much anymore. Less times each night, certainly. He still naps all day though. 

But things are easier. They’re better. She knows nothing about him — and what she does know is only what he chooses to share. There is nothing natural about this. Normally, she would learn about him by virtue of being by his side in his regular life. Though, Temari supposes, taking a sip of his water, this is his regular life now, so maybe it would be best to stop trying to distinguish what about him is truthful and what is contrived. She does know _some_ things, even if they aren’t necessarily significant or even real things. She can’t help it, after living with him for over a week. 

They get along more. It’s still careful, still generally mediocre, and they argue just a bit more. Though she thinks he kind of likes it. 

Maybe it’s masochism (she likes to think she wins) or maybe he is just pleased with any shift in their dynamic to something other than the usual monotony, but either way, he never seems more engaged than when they are disagreeing on something. Still, even when they’re sitting in silence, he lets her eat off his plate without having to ask. And she knows his favorite foods too and his favorite film genres. Of course she does. It’s been days. She must have learned some things (true or not) about him. It’s easier. A comfortable, completely staid, conventional relationship. Like actors, or dolls in a child’s game. They have their roles and they have learned to work within them. 

She also notices more things now, in general. She pays attention to his habits, notices his routines. He has taken to wearing a hair-tie on his wrist — he hadn’t when they met, but she doesn’t know whether it is something new or maybe something he only wasn’t doing during their meeting. Perhaps it’s the latter, because in bed some nights, he goes so far as to take his hair out of its tie (not every night, but sometimes). She notices a scar on his chin, which she only sees now that she is able to focus on him more often without getting as uncomfortable. Or rather, she is just uncomfortable in a different way, one that doesn’t always beg off her attention on him. She observes the length of his fingers when he spreads them out on the table when he is reading. 

Temari finishes his whole bottle of water — he shouldn’t complain, they will be leaving for dinner by the time he gets back — and goes back through his things to find the book he is reading. Now it’s something about an old philosophy not much practiced anymore. He doesn’t read really interesting things. 

She flips through the first few pages, stopping on the pages the book opens to naturally, wondering if the spine is more bent because he spent more time here. 

She does, occasionally, _like_ him. He may call her contrary, but she thinks he often says things just on the verge of being annoying solely to rile her. And she does enjoy it. At least he now has opinions on things. He’ll _act_ very cool and unaffected, but if she asks, he has thoughts on _everything_. And she wants to learn more about them. She doesn’t mind it — learning about him, even if she isn’t sure toward any validity. Sometimes, she even likes it. 

Temari settles in and tries to pay attention to the convoluted words before her, but she gives up pretty easily. Okay. So she doesn’t like him _that_ much. 

* * *

It’s cooler out, the sun low on the horizon, and the beach getting emptier now. It’s peaceful and easier, and so she is surprised when she looks toward the resort, just visible above the dunes, to see Shikamaru walking towards her with long, purposeful strides. The moment he is before her, he falls to his knees in the sand, and reaches out to gather their things. 

“Are you okay?” 

“We have work,” he mutters, but when he pauses to look up at her, there is more interest in his eyes than she has ever seen before. 

Temari bites her tongue to keep from smiling as she sits up. 

This. _This_. This is what she has been waiting for. 

“There was a man in the lobby as I was leaving. Wearing a shirt for a camera shop on the West Shore.”

Temari takes the salve from him and squeezes a good size into her hand. Ha, she told him to go to the hotel. 

“Did he say anything?”

“Drop,” Shikamaru says, tugging the towel she is on. Temari scoots off it as she spreads the balm over her shoulders and her back. It hurts to touch her skin, but the gel is cooling. Either way, she is hardly noticing it at all, waiting for him to continue. He waits though, until he has shoved the towel into his bag. Then out of his pocket he produces two movie tickets. “Film begins in two hours.”

Temari takes the tickets and looks at them. Nothing stands out on the tickets themselves. It’ll be something at the theater. She’s had these before. 

“It’ll be nice to see a movie tonight,” she says, tossing the balm into the packed bag and then grabbing her shirt. 

Shikamaru stands and then reaches for her hand. “Good timing.” He says. And she agrees. 

* * *

Temari has been desperate for this. She can feel the desire of it, the _need_ of it in the tips of her fingers and the back of her neck. She is yearning for something that _feels_ right, something she knows. Since there has been a shift in their assignment, she can now vaguely recognize that she’s been feeling as nothing more than a whore (surprising, as she actually has exchanged sex for money before, but in the end, that was always for a job with a clear and immediately tangible result). She isn’t _having_ sex, but she is being used as such for a far-off and loftier goal, and without any clear results except a convincing cover, and so she feels used in the same way she expects prostitutes might. Or maybe not. She doesn’t know. 

But she does know — she knows, she knows — being here, married to a man she does not love and does not want, _is_ part of the job. It _is_ the job. But that doesn’t mean it feels like she is _doing_ anything. It’s nothing in comparison to how she feels now — anticipatory, thankful, pledged — as she puts on one of the dresses she bought in town and does her hair. 

She can tell Shikamaru feels similarly, his movements more certain as he gets ready. 

It’s nothing, she thinks. Most likely an easy assassination. She does stuff like this all the time. It should not stand out in any way and should not render much more than a passing thought, but because of the time and the ask and the circumstance, this single action makes her finally feel, even though it’s only been about two weeks, that she has _purpose._

Temari turns from the bathroom to look at Shikamaru as he gathers his wallet. He seems so young, his frame so youthful, she is suddenly unsure he has killed anyone. He is always gentle in the way he moves, graceful, in a way she definitively isn’t. Of course he has, she knows; after all, she certainly had been for years at his age. Still though, still. He seems so _young_. 

“Ready?” He asks, not looking up from putting on his watch. He knows she is watching him, she can tell from the stiffness in his shoulder. 

She smiles, slowly and to herself. “Sure.”

* * *

It’s all easy enough. Thrilling even, in how easy, how natural this is. It seems like it has been years since she’s done anything, though she knows it hasn’t even been a month since she had an identical assignment. 

The man from the camera store does not make an appearance, according to Shikamaru, but it’s obvious who they’re supposed to find. They sit a little farther back than the middle. Temari crosses her legs at the knee and leans closer to his side so that their shoulders touch. The movie is a comedy, something about a birthday party, but she doesn’t know anything else beside the poster on the way in. It’s a small theater — the only one on the island — and it’s somewhat crowded. Lots of couples and families. There is one man alone though, sitting in the very back by himself. He’s obviously anxious and not at all incognito. He’s almost totally in the corner, just enough that if she tilts her head, as though leaning into speak to her husband, she can see him. 

The movie begins. Shikamaru can’t see the man without turning too obviously, and so he seems to settle down and actually start watching the film. 

Fifteen minutes pass and when she leans in now, she can see someone else, another man, sitting there too. They are whispering about something, maybe exchanging a file, she isn’t sure. Stupid meeting place. Readily apparent. What a cliché. 

“There’s someone else there.”

Shikamaru seemingly ignores her for a few moments, eyes paying attention to the screen. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls a few bills out of his wallet. “How much do you think popcorn is?” He hands her a few dollars and then a couple of coins. She is almost positive that anything from the theater would be more than that. 

Temari rolls her eyes. Maybe they’re a cliché too.

She takes the money and then slips off her wedding ring and hands it to him. He closes his palm around it and then, quietly, Temari stands up and slips out of the aisle and out of the theater. 

A source, perhaps. Maybe he has crossed them and is once more loyal to Jiro, or maybe he is simply no longer of use. Maybe he is just too loose a canon, too much of a risk (he was much too jittery, even from yards away in a dark theater). Or maybe none of those things. She has no idea who he was meeting with. It may not have been a set up on their part at all. She’s just taking a guess. 

It doesn’t matter. Her country has a reason for everything it does; for everything it asks of her.

Temari holds the money in her hand, just in her fingertips, precariously, as she leans against the wall. She is only around the corner from the auditorium — maybe that’s not the right name for a theater of less than a hundred seats — next to the empty ticket counter, waiting for the door. 

She hears it open, waits until it shuts, and then pockets the money. The man he is meeting with will be the first to leave. She hadn’t seen his face before — by the time he got there the movie had already started and the theater was dark, but she figures it is him wearing a tan suit. She wonders if this is the man from the camera shop who Shikamaru met earlier. In any case, when he turns the corner, he ignores her. It means nothing, but she waits until he is gone to take the money back out. It’s less than five minutes before she hears the door open again. 

Okay. 

She counts down the seconds it had taken the first man to turn the corner and then Temari moves to turn it as well and runs right into — quite literally — the man they were sent to find. 

The coins clatter on the ground and she drops the money violently. “Oh god,” she says, high-pitched. “I am _so_ sorry.” His wallet wasn’t in his jacket pocket. Dammit. 

She hardly moves away and the man naturally puts both hands up in apology without meaning to, hovering just near her shoulders as he focuses. “Don’t be. It was my fault,” he is flustered. “Are you okay?”

Temari smiles, exhales, brings a hand to her head as though dizzy. “Oh, yes. I think so.” She hasn’t stepped away and is a few inches closer than socially acceptable. 

She can imagine well enough what he sees. She is young and a little simple and eager. And pretty. 

He looks concerned and he rests his hands on her arms. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. But oh!” She steps out of his grip and looks down. “I dropped all my money.” 

She squats down. “Let me,” he says, and bends down after her and begins picking up the bills near her feet. 

“You don’t have to! I’m the one that dropped it!”

“After I ran right into you.” The man gathers everything on the ground and hands it to her. Their fingers touch as he passes it to her and she inhales. She has one shade of lipstick so far — they’ve only been shopping once, after all, but she is lucky the shade she chose is perfect for this type of event, for this type of interaction. 

Temari settles on her knees and counts out the money slowly, like a child, holding it out in one palm. “Oh no, I don’t have enough for popcorn.” She glances up and looks around. “It must have rolled under there!” She points to the ticket booth. 

The man, who likewise hasn’t stood up, immediately starts to reach into his pant’s pocket. “Let me lend you some.”

Temari reaches out with her free hand and places it on his, just lightly. “No no, please don’t! I couldn’t take money from you! I promise I brought it.”

He is still flustered, but differently now. Earlier, he was unsure. He was at the mercy of someone else. He was dependent on someone. Now, as the man, as the older one, he wants to fill the opposite role. 

“It’s no matter —”

“It must be there!” She cries. She pulls her hand off him and begins crawling on her hands and knees around the foot to the ticket counter. Temari bends low, butt in the air, arms extending under the counter. She knows exactly what she looks like… and she does expect him to be looking. 

She's right. She always is. And it’s a good few seconds before he joins her. 

“Let me try,” he says and bends down. 

Temari straightens. He is reaching out blindly. She is missing a coin Shikamaru gave her and it’s possible it’s down there, but she doesn’t actually know. Either way. 

“I feel something!” His voice is muffled, his attention focused on trying to find her missing coin. 

Temari slips her hand into his pocket. The floor is pretty dirty. She probably shouldn’t have worn a white dress. She pulls out the man’s wallet and opens it up. His license is front and center. She can’t be sure, but she is mostly positive that this is his real ID. That was stupid of him. Maybe he was being killed just for his stupidity? Never meet anyone with real identification. She and Shikamaru don’t even have their IDs, their Kiri ones as the Nara’s, on-hand. 

“Can you reach it?” 

She closes his wallet and tosses it to the side, right near the edge of the counter, only inches from his face, but he is looking the other way. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice strained. He grunts and slips his arm from under the counter. “I really am. My arm just isn’t long enough.”

She frowns, drops her hands in her lap, and pouts her lip. “It’s okay.” Temari is looking at the ground but can feel him looking at her. “Thank you for trying.”

“Here, I can lend you what you need. What, four dollars?” He reaches for his pocket again. 

Her eyes shoot up to meet his. “Really. It’s fine. I should have been paying more attention to where I was going. I’ve been so distracted recently!” She smiles, “and I already had dinner, so I really shouldn’t be eating.”

The man glances down, for only a moment, to look at her body in the low-cut dress. Predictable. 

She’s glad the sunburn is only on her back. There’s is nothing sexy about bright red skin.

“Please, I insist. You can’t enjoy a movie without popcorn.” But he doesn’t find his wallet. He checks his other pockets, pats his chest. “If I could find my wallet.”

A slight gasp. “Oh, do you think you dropped it too?” She starts looking, eyes moving over the floor around them. 

“Ah.” He exhales the moment he sees it, leaning forward, a little too close to her to grab it. “Here.” He opens it and counts out the money. She watches carefully, and when he extends it, gaze meeting hers, Temari smiles, softly, and then wider. 

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

She debates asking him if she can pay it back some other time, but then settles on letting it go. 

“Thank you _so much,_ ” she says earnestly, drawing her elbows closer to lift her breasts. She takes his money and pockets it along with the rest of what Shikamaru gave her. “I owe you.”

The man smiles and stands and then reaches for her elbow to help her up. Temari keeps smiling at him, appreciatively. She steadies herself and he drops her arm. 

“No, I’m happy to.” The man smiles too. He seems to consider saying something else — she thinks he may ask for her name — but he falls quiet and steps away. “Consider it my good act for the night.”

She laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He watches her as she walks over to the food counter. There is no one else in line when she arrives, and before giving her order to the waiting teenager, she tosses a wave back to the man. He lifts a hand in kind, sweetly, and then settles it into his pocket. 

She hears him leave before the popcorn comes. 

She’s probably missed fifteen minutes of the film by the time she comes back, plus the first bit, but Shikamaru seems to be enjoying himself, eyes caught on the screen still when she slides back into her seat, shoving the bag of popcorn into his lap. 

“314 Ryoma Street. There is a map in the phonebook at the resort.”

Shikamaru takes the popcorn and takes a few pieces before he speaks, chewing slowly, eyes never leaving the screen. “It’s okay. I know where it is. Let’s go after this.”

“Why would you possibly know where that is?”

He glances over at her now, frowning. “I memorized the streets when we got here. Just in case.”

“And here I was thinking you were making me do all the work.” 

He shrugs, not seeming to care too much. She holds his gaze for a minute and then falls back against her seat, rolling her eyes. Showoff. 

* * *

They don’t speak much as they walk home that night. Shikamaru directs them and she doesn’t question it, following his lead. She has no reason to doubt his directional skills, and he walks with enough confidence that she believes he knows what he is doing.

He says it will be at least an hour out of their way in total, the address a good two miles west of the direction they want to go. But the island isn’t that big, and the night is nice, so they walk. It isn’t too hard. 

Temari tells him about dropping the money and the conversation between the man in the tan suit and the mark. The man in the tan suit is nondescript enough that Shikamaru can’t confirm if he is the man from the camera shop, but it doesn’t matter either way. They talk about the movie too and he fills her in on the first third she missed. Apart from that, they don’t have too much to say. 

The stars are out tonight. There is no cloud cover. She wonders what they will look like from her balcony at the resort.

Every road, mostly, off the main one is residential, but houses become more spread out and the roads narrower the deeper into the island they go. Eventually they come to Ryoma. They walk on the north side of the block, along the odd numbers, and when they come within a hundred yards or so of approximately where his home is, Shikamaru reaches out and throws his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly into his side. Temari reaches up to where his hand rests against her left shoulder and interlaces their fingers casually. They’re simply a young couple walking home on a beautiful, warm, late summer night. They don’t often walk hand in hand and, even lying by his side in the same bed every night, she has never been as close to him as she is now, tucked into his body as she is. He is a good height, she thinks. Tall without being imposing, tall without being memorizing-ly so. Probably works well for his occupation. 

It was good instinct on his part — pulling her in. When they do come to the correct block, there is a car parked with two men inside, opposite the sidewalk and a few houses down from 314. The lights are off, but their outlines are clearly visible. It’s the only car parked on the block this late at night with the windows down. Stupid, she thinks. They must really think he is safe if they’re sitting so outwardly visible from across the house they’re watching; if they’re rolling down the windows to catch the breeze instead of maintaining cover. 

“Not very subtle, are they?” Shikamaru whispers, head bent down to her shoulder. 

Temari glances at the house as casually as possible. Lots of windows. If they were going to get a better gun than she knows they will, she would recommend finding a neighboring roof. But alas, she’s sure they will go for the back door. She can tell, just from the front, that this house has one. 

She wonders who he is and why he is being killed and why he would think it at all reasonable to meet someone clandestinely in the dark back of a movie theater. Someone — she wasn’t sure who it was, her side or his — was pulling one over on him.

As soon as they finish the block, Shikamaru turns north, off Ryoma. The moment they are out of sight, he drops his arm from around her and gradually, over a few steps, they go back to their previous distance of a foot or so between them. 

They discuss the plan for the morning, but apart from that, they continue the rest of the way back to the resort in silence.

* * *

Temari walks into the camera shop the next day with two rolls of film to develop. 

The man behind the counter, who matches Shikamaru’s vague description of the man who gave him the movie tickets, tells her the rolls should be finished in twenty-four hours. He hands her a package along with her receipt, hardly looking at her, and Temari fits it comfortably in her bag. 

As she steps out of the store, bell above the door still sounding in her ear, she feels better. The weight in her bag feels good. If she is honest, she misses being armed. She misses that (generally false) security of protection. She assumes they’ll have a few weapons at their house that aren’t on temporary loan, but she will rarely carry those on her person from now on. 

It doesn’t matter of course — anything can be a weapon. Everything is a weapon. But it feels good to actively hold onto one that she knows will protect her if need be.

Shikamaru, when she meets him at the beach, reaches for the package and feels it without opening it up from inside the bag. 

“No silencer?” He asks, clearly annoyed. “It’s a residential neighborhood. There is a parked unit outside.”

Temari pulls off her dress and takes the ties from her hair. She kicks off her sandals, letting her things pile up beside him. They won’t be able to sneak in and out unnoticed. “I’ll get a car,” she says, “this afternoon.”

Before he can respond, if he were going to, she walks away. It’s a perfect time for a swim.

* * *

It’s all very quick. She parks on a parallel street one block away, south of Ryoma. She watches, in silence, in the dark, as Shikamaru walks through the yard of the house behind 314. She keeps her eyes on him until he disappears into the dark. 

She has rented the car with cash that afternoon. Better than jacking one if they don’t need to. It’s a good model. Shikamaru options they buy a similar one when they get to Kiri in a few days. It’s dark, but not suspicious. Small and not notably fast. A good car for young professionals. She doesn’t care for it, but she has no care for anything else. 

Temari pulls her baseball cap lower over her eyes. She is wearing her only pair of jeans. In the little shopping she has done to grow a wardrobe, she hasn’t bought much more than dresses that make her look easily pretty without too much attention on her, things that blend her in with the youth. They’re nothing like what she would normally wear — modest and attractively homely — and none of them are as comfortable as her uniform used to feel. 

She hates this part, eyes narrowed in the direction Shikamaru disappeared. She feels like a sitting duck. Waiting on the side is always the worse of the two roles. 

It’s only three minutes max though until she hears the gunshot. She starts the engine. The shot wasn’t as loud as she’d been expecting. He probably used a pillow. She would have missed it had she not known to listen. Perhaps they’ll be lucky and the two men watching the house weren’t paying enough attention to hear it. She’s done lots of stakeouts before and that two am push is the hardest. When they drove in, they didn’t go down Ryoma, so she doesn’t know the status of the plainclothes team, but if they’re _very_ lucky, the men will be asleep and won’t know anything until morning. 

Either way, it’s less than thirty seconds before Shikamaru is pulling open the passenger-side door and Temari is pressing down on the gas pedal. 

She drives west. If the police do get a description of the car, it will be much later in the day, and they’ll be lying low, enjoying their honeymoon. 

Shikamaru is breathing hard, but as they drive, and as they hit the road that encircles the island, she is able to look over at him as he cleanly disassembles the weapon and then takes a cloth he’d left in the glove compartment and begins wiping down each part of it. He is sure in these movements. She can tell the process, the meticulous nature of his work, is calming. 

She circles half the island and then once they hit the east side, she comes around down the main street headed back west. She comes to a stop outside the camera shop, parking directly in front of the door. It’s the middle of the night and no one is around. Shikamaru takes the disassembled gun and leaves it underneath his seat. Temari turns off the car, hides the key under the visor, and steps out. She watches him wipe down her side for prints, then his own, and then he steps out of the car and finishes on the passenger handle before tossing her the cloth. 

Temari knows this. She likes this. This relationship, a classic partnership. She understands it, like she understood it with Nejiri all those years ago. And she works well, with him. 

The hotel isn't far, but they wander to the shoreline and will wait there until the hotel begins serving breakfast. They stay at a higher part of the beach than they would normally go to and they walk mainly in the dunes until they find a secluded spot not easily visible from the beachfront houses. He stays awake first and it's easy for Temari, under the stars and warmth of the sand, to fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, the end of the honeymoon. p sure that's how most go, right? appropriate levels of sex and violence? you know, the usual.
> 
> (chapters longer from here on out)


	4. Chapter 4

“Let’s meet back here in an hour?” 

Temari leans against the wood building of ice cream parlor, licking her cone where the ice cream is already melting. 

“Where are you going?”

Shikamaru hadn’t wanted any ice cream. He never really wants anything good. 

“Bookstore.” He rubs the back of his neck, gesturing with his chin to the store across the street. “Something for the plane.”

“It’s, like, a twenty-minute ride. You don’t need a whole new book.” She licks her ice cream again. “Why don’t you go buy a souvenir? Something we can display from our trip. You know, to talk about. Something we have a story about.”

He doesn’t frown, but she can tell he wants to. “Talk to who about?”

A shrug. “Anyone who asks.”

“No one is going to ask.” 

“Yes. They will. People will! Shouldn’t we want them to?”

Shikamaru sighs and waves his hand in acquiescence, though it’s obvious he is only giving in and not actually agreeing with her. 

Temari smirks to herself as he turns around and starts walking across the street to the bookstore, hands shoved in his pockets. She licks her dessert and watches him behind her sunglasses. She will go back to the store and buy one final swimsuit and maybe a nicer pair of sandals. 

“Hey Shikamaru,” she calls when he pulls open the door to the shop. He is far enough away that she has to yell for his attention. He turns, hand holding the door ajar. “Buy me something!”

He levels her a look and, even all the way across the street, she understands it. He knows she is only humoring him, but he appreciates it anyway. 

Temari finds herself grinning, lips pulled wide, and he looks at her for a moment and then disappears into the bookstore.

* * *

The file she’d been shown a few weeks ago, back in Suna, had a picture of her house. She knows which one it is (has thought of it most days) as the cab pulls onto the street. Shikamaru must be thinking the same thing, but they haven’t said anything about it, so she isn’t sure. 

Temari takes note of the other houses too. She observes their size and the spread of their lawns. It is Friday, around two pm. There are children playing in one yard and someone gardening in another. It’s certainly a nice August afternoon, no clouds in the sky and songbirds out. No one looks suspicious, no one seems to anticipate any possibility of harm. There’s no expectation of any alternative to their easy lives. 

Yet shouldn’t they know better? The wars may be over, but that doesn't mean there is peace. It doesn't mean things have returned to whatever sense of normalcy existed before she was born. The Water Lands Alliance is a threat to the rest of the world. She's there to stop it from becoming an even bigger one. 

But looking around now, seeing the people around the neighborhood out, enjoying the sunshine, you'd have no idea there was any problem in their lives whatsoever, no inclination that anything could ever go wrong at all. 

She was told it would be that way, but it’s surprising nevertheless.

She glances over at Shikamaru, who is silent as he observes the street. 

There is a moving van on the way. An hour or so before it arrives, the man told her on the phone. 

The cab pulls into the driveway and Shikamaru takes out their bags as she pays the fare. 

They only have the two suitcases they arrived to Jiro with, so it’s only moments before Shikamaru is taking the key the estate agent left in the mailbox and turning it in the lock. Temari feels slightly lightheaded. The door squeaks open to reveal a foyer. It’s completely empty. He steps in first and she follows, taking care to lock the door behind her. 

When she was a child, she lived in a much larger house, but she was young when she was forced out on her own. Her family had money, they had connections; they were important. They still are. Her brother is — he will be. But this house, with its shutters and light wood and open windows, is nicer than anywhere she’s had in years. It isn’t grand, but it is _good_. It is a home to be married in; to start a family in.

Temari steps through the foyer. The kitchen is on her left, and it’s more narrow than she is expecting, more narrow than a house this size warrants, with countertops against either wall and against the far wall, where an archway to the left opens into a small dining room. The tiles and counters are light blue and, on the left counter, a large window above the sink brings light into the room. In front of her, where she still stands by the front door, is a staircase and a closet, and to her right, a living room and guest bedroom. She’s seen it all in the file already, though it feels different to see the blueprints actualized before her.

Shikamaru sets down their bags and then, slowly, toeing off his shoes, walks past her. She stands there and looks around as he quickly walks from room to room before heading upstairs. When he is out of sight, Temari follows suit, taking off her own shoes and walking barefoot to the kitchen. Gently, she reaches out her hand to touch the counter, hesitating for only a moment, hand still in the air an inch from the tile, and then she lowers it, letting the stone cool her skin. Slowly, Temari walks, running her fingers over the countertop, stopping to look in the refrigerator, the oven. 

She may not be here forever. There are other locations in the Water Lands Alliance. They could be sent to the Sea or Lightening or Tea. They could be sent back to Jiro. There are always discussions of movements in Kuro, though those sound far off. There is no guarantee she will be in this house for the rest of her life. There are other locations where Suna may want to place her. She and Shikamaru may even choose to move to a better neighborhood within Kiri, they may make more (or less) money than now and decide to adjust accordingly. There is no promise of _this_ place but for the foreseeable future, it is her home. 

Temari makes her way into the empty dining room. A table, one they did not choose, is coming today. 

Slowly, feet silent on the floor, Temari goes back through the kitchen and across the entryway over to the living room. 

In three days, Monday morning, she will wake up, get dressed, and head to her first day of work. She’s been offered a job as one of the research assistants in the physics laboratory at the university. It is a large lab — one of the largest in the world. It’s privately run, but is known for its government contracts. Temari has some experience in the physical sciences, but she expects there will be a great lag in what she knows versus what is expected of her. It’s a real job — not a cover — and she is supposed to excel in it. That is, unless she is told to stop. She is not going to be working, she assumes, on any weaponry or anything related to politics until much, much later, if at all. 

She — Y, her character, her position, the body she is filling — has been assigned there though, so she expects there is some reason that lab was chosen as her occupation rather than anything else. 

Shikamaru, who she knows does not particularly like to write (or seemingly to do anything at all) will also be at the university (it is how they met, after all) as a graduate student in politics and a part-time employee at one of the local papers popular with students. He will write opinion pieces for the paper during his studies, commenting however he is told to, holding any opinion they want him to have. He will be there until he finishes his degree, and then maybe he will move up to work at the paper full time or he will go with government work, whichever ends up more feasible, more worthwhile. 

They have cover identities, but Kiri is only one city. It is best to keep eyes from looking where things are best unseen. If Shikamaru wants a good job aiding a politician, he must not apply for one. There must be no opportunity for anyone, in any form of vetting, to look too deeply into his past. Rather, he will work under his professors, under whatever internship he gets hired for next summer, and create relationships. He must stay with those few he settles on. If he moves jobs, they will look into his past. The relationships he forms must be predicated on years of trust, on the deep, inherent belief that you know the other in totality; the sort of relationship formed by mentors to their mentees, the implicit relationship of someone looking at Shikamaru and considering him “like a son.” 

Shikamaru is back downstairs by the time she makes it to the second floor. There isn’t much here. A bedroom and two offices that they will eventually adapt into bedrooms when she has children. Without furniture, there isn’t anything to see, but Temari walks around anyway, looking at the bathtub and the sink, looking out the window to the small yard below. It’s all quite domestic. 

If she is honest, she doesn’t like it. She wouldn’t choose some place like this for herself. It’s too big in some places and too small in others. There is hardly room in the kitchen for two people. 

She hears a noise in the road. She hadn’t realized it had been that long. Temari smooths out her dress and straightens her collar. Well, this is it. 

When she gets back down, Shikamaru is outside talking to one of the moving men. There is a large truck backed into her driveway and three men starting to lower boxes from it. 

“Hello,” she says, stepping out. “How can I help?”

* * *

She’s exhausted by the time she is taking the plastic wrapping off the couch. She wraps it in one big ball and then drops it on the floor by her feet. Everything she and Shikamaru own ( _own_ is a bit of a misnomer though) has been moved from the truck into the house, but most of it still sits in boxes. Shikamaru has spent the last few hours putting together a bookshelf while she works on smaller projects. They would finish faster if they were working together, but she doesn’t want to help him with anything. 

It’s too hot in here. She’d had all the windows open, but that had only brought in more humidity instead of the breeze she’d wanted. There is no air conditioning yet, just a floor fan that is in the living room between them, oscillating back and forth. 

She’d ordered food and it sits only half-eaten on the kitchen floor — no one has bothered trying to figure out the dining table yet — but she isn’t too hungry. She’s hot and tired and annoyed at everything before her. 

“We’re going to need to order more things,” Temari says, mostly to herself, but also with the keen awareness that Shikamaru will both hear her and disagree with what she says. “Even that whole moving van didn’t carry enough.”

Shikamaru, on the floor a few feet away screwing together slabs of wood for a shelf, doesn’t bother to glance up. “This is more than enough.” At his back, his light tee shirt is pressed to his skin with the sweat along his spine.

“We haven’t put anything in the guest bedroom.”

“We don’t have any guests.”

“We have to make it seem like we might.”

He looks up now and turns to her. “Temari, who do you think will be staying here?”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Stop patronizing me. Why would a normal house keep full rooms completely empty? If someone — god forbid — does feel the need to look here, why would we possibly give them something to see?”

Shikamaru exhales and goes back to his shelf, ignoring her, which only serves to irritate her more. 

“It’s all so empty. We’ll have a bookshelf with no books. A cabinet with nothing inside it. We need more art or more pictures. Something on the wall. Something to make it look like we actually _have_ a life.”

He is slow in his response, but he finally drops the screwdriver and the directions he’s been reading, and carefully stands up, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Developing a life is something that takes time. Newlyweds wouldn’t have a complete household.”

“They would have memories,” she snaps. “Why? Do you know any?’

He narrows his eyes, angrier now. “You know I don’t.” He couldn’t, because everyone he knows, like everyone she knows, belongs to their government and not to one another. 

Temari huffs and turns away, walking into the kitchen. She grips the counter, holding onto it and trying to take a deep breath. There is absolutely no reason to be irate. He’s done nothing wrong. There is Nothing. Wrong.

He follows her though, so the rest is probably his fault. 

“It’s so cold here,” she breathes, turning around, pressing her lower back to the counter instead, hands waving. “It’s _so_ cold.”

It is. She doesn’t know how else to describe it. She’s sweating from the temperature, yet it _feels_ cold. It’s cold and empty and desolate and she is in a home filled with nothing that belongs to her and nothing, not one thing, including him, that she chose; that she wants. 

He stands in kitchen entrance, leaning against the doorway casually, as if there is something to be casual about. Except he’s always casual, always unaffected, always cool and calm and nothing like her at all. 

“Material objects aren’t going to fix that.”

“They won’t?” She says, mockingly. She can hear the cruelty coming out of her mouth and she doesn’t know why. 

He stares at her, annoyed. “We have a budget for the move,” he says, finally, “go buy whatever you want. Fill this place with false memories of a life we never lived and maybe that will satisfy you.”

“It’s you. _You’re_ so cold!” Temari turns her head, stares at him. “You’re so despondent, all the time. You’re always leaving it to me to _try_. Everything you do is so contrived. Why don’t you just _speak to me_?!”

Shikamaru looks taken aback. He looks like she slapped him across the face. But he doesn’t look angry. He is looking at her with an intensity she has never seen before. His eyes are bright, his breath coming in heavier, like he is ready for a fight, like he’s ready to do something more. 

He straightens, takes his weight off the doorframe, levels his gaze to hers. “Is that really what you think of me?”

Temari mirrors him, pushing off the counter and turning to face him. “How can I think anything else?” She doesn’t understand why she is doing this. And she recognizes it in real-time, as she speaks, as she matches his gaze and lets the words roll off her tongue. But she doesn’t stop it. She’s never been afraid to speak her mind. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have someone more docile. Someone more content to fulfill your easy, traditional marriage roles of grinning and bearing.”

Shikamaru opens his mouth, half-smiling in disbelief, tongue running along the outside of his teeth. He looks to the side for a second and then back to her. “What do you want from me, Temari?”

Nevermind, she does know why she is doing this. 

It’s days of fury, of untapped rage, of all-consuming resentment she doesn’t feel for _him_ exactly, but has no other outlet or scapegoat except _for_ him. He is the only body to take it, and so she has to give it. 

Maybe, she thinks, as he shakes his head, lips red, he wants to give it to her too. 

“To tell you that you’re right?” He continues. “Someone more docile is ideal? Someone who doesn’t see us as enemies?” Shikamaru shrugs, waves a hand. “You’re right. I do.” 

Temari inhales, opens her mouth, but he doesn’t stop. He is speaking too quickly, too intently. 

“You’re angry they chose me. Angry because we’re not from the same place; because we represent different places. And you blame me.” He inhales, turns and gestures behind him, in front of him, everywhere, and then stares her down again. “You see everything as yours or mine, not ever as _ours_. Is that what you want? Is that what you want me to say? Isn’t that _really_ the problem? You don’t want me here, you want someone else?”

“I just want you to be honest. To tell me what _you_ want. To say something! To ask something from me! To raise your voice and feel something, anything! To just give me _more_.”

His eyes burn. Doesn’t he want to fight? Doesn’t he want this too? Doesn’t he need it? 

She feels it in her chest, in a thrum down to her fingers, and deep in her gut. 

“Fine. You want to know how I feel? What I think about this?” He takes a step closer, then another. The kitchen is not that big. He is pushing her in. “I think it’s pointless.” She takes a step back. “You want to fill all this space to give you something real to hold onto when you know you’ll never be able to really want anything again. You want to pacify yourself into thinking there is something more when there isn’t. This isn’t your home. It’s not _ours_. They will be never _our_ memories. We don’t have any memories we _want_. Don’t you understand that?”

She exhales, shaky. She is hot, burning in her lungs, behind her eyes, cheeks flushed. 

“You always do that: talk like you’re so superior! Like you know something about me when you know nothing! You never try. You’re so patronizing without absolutely nothing to back it up.” She steps closer now too. Too close. Only a few inches from him. She can feel the heat radiating off him; the urge to touch him, to push him, to get her hands on him in a way where she can throw more than just her words, to feel the impact of her knuckles on his jaw. “Stop trying to turn this on me. I want to fill this place up to maintain what we’re being told to create!”

She is close enough that she has to look up, to tilt her head back, to keep his eyes on hers. 

“I’m right,” he says, like it’s as simple as that. She can feel his breath on her face. Her heart is pounding, her knees buckling. 

No one has ever gotten her this angry before.

Temari blinks, swallows. It’s too close. She steps back. Walks, carefully, to the back of the kitchen, stopping when she reaches a counter. She is breathing too heavily. 

Shikamaru has not moved. She watches his chest heave with his inhale, body taut, trying to keep himself in line. She can see him holding back all the way down to the fist by his side. 

Say it, she wants to spit. She wants more, still. She feels the urgency of it in her throat. 

“You want more things so it seems more real to you.” He glances down at the floor. “But that’s not going to happen, Temari.” And then he looks back. Is this it? Is this enough? “It doesn’t matter. It will _never_ be real. If it were, you never would have had this. Even if we were back home, we never would have had these things.”

It’s a blow, but not enough. She wonders where the little boy she had met two weeks ago went. Where had he gone? There was nothing young, nothing weak about him now. She can feel the damage he is capable of. She holds her breath. She wants more. More. 

Temari knows it is going too far before she even says it, knows it is too much as the words roll off her tongue, but she can’t help it. She wants to hurt him. She wants him to hurt her. 

“ _My_ home.” She spits it out. “Not. Yours.”

The effect is immediate. He takes a step back, looks away from her in shock like it is too much to keep her gaze. 

She means it in so many ways — they’re not together, they’d never be, they’re not in this together, they represent their respective people against another people, but they don’t do it _together._

She also means — and she knows he understands it, knows that this is the blow that has landed, the punch she threw with her words harder than she ever could have with her fist — that he isn’t like her; that when he said they never would have had these things, these material objects, he was lying. Because he _would_ _have_ had more. Konoha _always_ had more. She wouldn’t have had these things, but he would have. He was not like her. He was more like _them_. 

It’s enough. She’s gone too far. 

Shikamaru swallows. He isn’t looking at her. 

Only a moment later, with a ragged exhale, he turns and walks away. She closes her eyes so she won’t have to watch him leave. She hears the front door open and then slam shut behind him. 

Temari falls back against the counter, letting it catch her weight, hands reaching for solace and, not finding enough of it, she fists them in her dress while she slowly slips down against the cabinets to come to the floor, knees curled into her chest. 

She stays in the kitchen for a long time, back curved against the cabinets. She waits until her breathing evens out, waits until she doesn’t feel anger anymore and just feels shitty for what she said, for not working harder to control herself; for letting her emotions get the best of her. She knows it was unfair. But maybe, it was worthwhile. Maybe it was good to say something more. Maybe it was good to express something real and to stop trying to be so placating. 

Or maybe not. Maybe this will be like dropping a teacup and watching it shatter into so many pieces, it is impossible to put back together again. Irreparable. Maybe she has shattered the careful, platonic relationship they had formed. Maybe things will only be worse from now on. 

Eventually the floor becomes too cold. It _is_ cold, literally this time, and even though it is still summer and still hot out, she has to pull herself up and go find a sweater. She makes her way, quietly, upstairs to the bedroom. The bed is smaller than the one in the hotel in Jiro. She takes the same side she had there and sits down against the mattress. It’s lower too and her feet touch the floor now. Temari stays there for a while, waiting. When he doesn’t come back, she gets ready for bed and, quicker than she expects, falls asleep. 

She wakes up when he opens the front door. She is sure, when she hears the bedroom door open, that he knows she is awake (how could she not be, she knows how to be alert like this), but she doesn’t move and pretends to be asleep, and so Shikamaru says nothing. 

* * *

Temari turns onto the street, listening to the grocery bags in the trunk shift. 

The car still smells new even though they bought it used. It’s nothing too nice; nothing to catch the eye. Dark blue, a dent and some rust around the bumper. She hopes the smell will go away soon. 

Temari pulls into her driveway, parks, and turns off the engine. They have two sets of keys for it. Right now she has keys to the car and to the house. There is nothing more she needs to unlock, but she expects, in a few years, more keys will decorate this ring. 

When she eventually makes it to the trunk and grabs one bag, she hears footsteps approaching near the bottom of the drive behind her. 

“Good Afternoon,” a voice says and Temari, one grocery bag against her chest, turns around. “Let me help you with that!”

“Oh,” Temari smiles. “Um….”

The woman keeps walking. “My name is Kahyo,” she says, stepping up. “I live right across the way.” She gestures with her thumb to the house directly across Temari’s. “Please let me help you.”

“Sure,” Temari steps back, reaches for another bag and lets Kahyo take one of her own. “Thank you so much!”

The woman laughs and takes one of the heavier bags. “You sure have a lot of stuff here.”

“We just moved in,” she explains, “so I’m trying to fill some space. Oh, sorry,” she puts one of the bags back into the trunk so she can extend her hand. “I’m Temari. It’s nice to meet you.”

Kahyo grins. “Likewise.” She is in her mid-to-late thirties with dark hair and kind eyes. There is nothing suspicious about her, but Temari hadn’t thought anyone would come talk to her for seemingly no reason. “We saw you move in yesterday. Where are you coming from?”

“Downtown,” Temari says easily. “About five miles east. Not too bad a move.”

The woman laughs. “You’re so lucky! We moved in three years ago all the way from Kusagakure. I remember how much work it was, even if it _is_ only a few miles, so please, let me know if I can help at all!”

Temari waves the offer off and then reaches once more for the bag she had put down. “That’s kind of you to say, but right now we’re just figuring out where to put everything. It’s menial, tedious work. The comedown after the honeymoon.” She laughs and then raises one of the bags as a point. “This is all just to try to stock the cabinets.” She has seven more in the trunk. It will be a few trips. 

They make their way to the front door when Temari decides she should do more. If someone is going to talk to her, if she and Shikamaru are meant to integrate into the community, it is best to start early. 

“If you are free though, we would love to have you over for dinner sometime.”

Temari puts down one of her bags to reach for her keys. 

“I’d enjoy that.” Kahyo smiles. “My husband is out of town for the next few weeks for work, but I’m free.” Temari pushes open the door and steps aside to hold it, letting Kahyo in first. “But since you’ve just arrived, why don’t you come over to our house?” Temari follows her in. There are still half-open boxes everywhere. “Come tonight, so you don’t have to cook. You can totally relax, have a glass of wine, put your feet up, and let me make you dinner.”

Oh. That is soon. That’s not quite what she meant. 

“Thank you,” Temari says, eyes trained forward as she leads the way into the kitchen. “But we have so much to—”

“That’s exactly what I mean! Come over, take a break, have some food, and then come back and finish whatever you need to. I can imagine how much you need to get out of this house. It will make you feel better, give you a better perspective on things in the neighborhood. And you’ll be able to relax! Even after the honeymoon….” 

Kahyo laughs at herself. 

They drop the bags in the kitchen and go back to the car to get more. 

Temari is wary. She and Shikamaru have gone out together in public, but they’ve never done so over dinner with someone else. That’s a big risk. After all, they haven’t spoken more than one word to each other all day. 

“Sorry, am I being too pushy? My husband is always saying I’m too demanding. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You’ve had a big weekend! Let’s schedule for a time you aren’t surrounded by cardboard boxes.”

“No,” Temari says defensively, deciding as they come to the car. This is good. This is her job. “We’d love to come over. A break from this is exactly what I need.”

* * *

Shikamaru has an arm thrown over her chair and is leaning back in his own. His hand is large and warm and pressed against her back, right between her shoulder blades. 

“Well, after I finally rallied enough, I went over and said hello.”

“But you knew he was coming?” Kahyo asks, tipping her glass to Temari. 

“Sure,” she smiles as she leans out of Shikamaru’s touch to rest her elbow onto the table. “I knew he was going to be there, though it took so long for him to show up, I thought maybe he’d stood me up.”

“It wasn’t a blind date. We didn’t have a _set_ meeting.”

Temari shrugs, smiles, looks back at him as though still resilient in this long-held disagreement. “He was late.”

Shikamaru rolls his eyes. 

“So… what happened? You just went up to her? Were you nervous?”

He smirks at Temari, reaches out and squeezes her shoulder and then relaxes his arm by his side. “I’ve never been more scared of anything in my life.”

Temari turns back to their host. “He was so nervous he hardly said a word.”

“She was so beautiful,” he says, tapping a finger on the table. “I was too awestruck, I couldn’t think straight.”

“I’m surprised you went along with him.”

Temari laughs. “Well, my classmate — the one who told me about him — was so sure we’d get along. Plus, you know, he was pretty cute. Even when silent. And tardy.”

Kahyo is grinning. 

She is beautiful, leaning back in her chair, skin glowing in the lamplight. 

It isn’t the first time they’ve said it aloud. Many, many times, they have gone through different stories, both those from the dossier and those they’ve considered on their own. They’ve worked over their accents and inflections, memorized and practiced lingo and phrases common to Kiri. They’ve been a couple in public many times before — almost two weeks of a whole honeymoon spent among other people — but they’ve rarely been a couple _with_ other people. And never like this — never for a whole evening. 

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Kahyo leans forward for a moment and takes the wine bottle to top off their glasses. “He came up to you at the library, didn’t speak—”

“I _spoke_!” Shikamaru interjects, but she continues over him. 

“—and now you’re here. What happened in between?”

Temari is still laughing at him. “Well, we found out we had a lot in common. And, even if I was the only one who spoke the _entire_ time,” she casts an eye back at Shikamaru, “he still called my dorm the next day. And then we went out again. And again. _And_ now we’re here.”

Shikamaru leans forward and reaches for one of the brownies Temari had baked and brought over, taking a sip of his newly filled wineglass before he settles back into his seat. 

“Okay, okay,” Kahyo continues, smile softer now. Temari can’t help but like her. Shikamaru does too, Temari can tell. “And you’ve been married for three weeks. So, how was the wedding?”

Temari takes a long sip of her wine, so Shikamaru answers: uneventful; we eloped.

A small gasp. “Really? Why?”

On the table, Temari fingers her wedding ring, twirling the gold band around her finger. “Well, we knew we were moving. Shikamaru was starting school and I was starting work. And it just seemed like a good time to start our life together.” She smiles, looks over at him. “Plus, you know, cheaper tuition when you’re married.”

Shikamaru finishes his brownie. 

“You’re awfully young,” Kahyo says, and then immediately she sits up and waves her hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to be offensive. I didn’t get married until I was thirty! Though it seems like people are waiting longer and longer these days.”

Temari exhales. “You’re right. I genuinely never thought I would get married. And if I did, I expected it to be much later. But, you know,” she reaches back, pats Shikamaru’s knee for a moment, “I knew he was the one. There was never any doubt for me.”

“Lots for me,” he says, laughter in his tone, and then he takes her hand, settling it on his knee. 

“I believe it,” Kahyo leans into her chair, her glass of wine tilting back and forth between her fingers as she sips at it. “You two seem very happy together.”

“So far,” Temari rolls her eyes. 

“Well,” Kahyo continues. “You’ve certainly chosen a good spot. It’s a great neighborhood. Lots of kids,” she raises her brows, “for, you know, whenever.”

Temari, pointedly, throws back the rest of her glass. 

“ _And_ ,” Kahyo smiles, “we’re only fifteen minutes from the university, twenty-five in traffic. Good restaurants. And the beach isn’t too far.”

They laugh and Temari, balancing her head in the palm that isn’t holding Shikamaru’s hand, is grinning in earnest. “It is nice, isn’t it?” She looks back at him and then front to Kahyo. “How lucky we are.”

She hates the way he looks.

Temari pulls her hand away from him and allows Shikamaru to finish his own glass while she asks more questions about the design of the neighborhood (a development sixty years ago) and if there are any interesting stories about the neighbors (there aren’t) and some discussion of Kahyo’s work (she works for a non-profit). 

When they eventually leave, Kahyo keeps apologizing for keeping them from their unpacking for so long. 

“No, you’ve only aided it.” Shikamaru says, standing in the entryway. 

Temari takes the platter, cleaned, of brownies she’d brought over. “We have all the time in the world to unpack.”

“Well then, after you settle in, you must come again; meet my husband.”

“We’ll have both you over then, once we’re done.” Temari insists, and then leans into the hug Kahyo is offering. 

“Wonderful!” 

Temari watches as Kahyo puts an arm around Shikamaru and then kisses his cheek, as she had Temari’s. That’s more than Temari has ever touched her own husband. She sleeps in the same bed as him every night, but she has never been that close to him. Funny. 

* * *

Not long later, after she has brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas, Temari sits in the dark atop the kitchen counter, legs dangling off the edge. She has a glass of water. She doesn’t want one now, but she knows she will later. Even though her mouth tastes like mint, the heaviness of red wine is in her throat, her chest, her wrists. 

She hasn’t turned on a light, but the kitchen window, which looks out on the street, lets in light from the nearest streetlamp. It’s enough to see her legs, the edges and corners of the counter; the calendar she has hung on the refrigerator. 

Temari stays here, not sipping her water, eyes focused at the corner opposite her where the floor meets the wall. The crease where they meet is out of focus. Her blood is too warm, her attention too sporadic, too non-linear. 

She thinks about dinner and about how she spent the whole time pretending _too_ much. 

This is what she keeps repeating, over and over, as she sits in silence in the kitchen. She knows she has to find a balance. If she is a _lie_ in everything, she will never survive. If she lets this person — bubbly and easy and happy — take over, she will lose herself. 

And she doesn’t want to lie; not about stuff like this. She _likes_ Kahyo. She doesn’t want to be someone else before her. 

Maybe it’s being around him? Maybe that is too much of a falsehood? Maybe that is where she has gone wrong: she can’t find the balance between implementing a cover and lying, because pretending to be with him is so far off from anything she have would ever wanted? Even his face had annoyed her tonight. This morning. All day. What a _stupid_ thing to be annoyed by?! It’s a good face! She knows this, _knows_ he is beautiful and desirable and all of those things. 

Temari blinks, tries to refocus the line between the floor and the wall. 

Just a few days ago, she had thought they were doing well — she had even liked him, platonically, more recently. But god — she hates his face! She hates the way he looks, still, weeks later. She hates his brow and the slope of his nose, and she hates the way he looks _at_ people, the way he smiles and is kind to them. She hates the way she is around him. She hates how unnatural being by his side feels. 

She’s done things like this before — when it is just her and a mark, it is easy. She is someone else, by the side of someone who fully believed her. It was always so clear. A clear end in mind, in sight.

And if she was with someone who was also pretending — with her classmates or coworkers or partners — it was different then too. They were both in on a secret, both performing for a common goal. This isn’t that. This simply felt false… _slimy_. There is no benefit, no end-goal in befriending Kahyo. It’s just a stronger cover; lying for no real purpose. 

She feels dirty. She feels warm. She feels tired. 

Shikamaru makes it all the way to the kitchen before she even realizes he is coming downstairs. He stands in the doorway, watching her. She won’t turn, but she can see him in the corner of her sight. She still wears the pajamas given to her, the silken shorts and long-sleeved shirt, but Shikamaru has taken to wearing a white tee instead of what they gave him. His shirt is too bright for tonight. She feels like the whiteness is burning her eyes. How can it be so light? Doesn’t it know how dark he is?

It can’t be too long that he stands there, but she isn’t sure how time passes right now. He comes, feet silent on the floor, walking before her, right in front of her. He spreads his arms, grips the counter on either side of her knees, arms wide enough that he is almost leaning forward onto the counter, right in the space she would have been had she not been leaning back against the cabinets. 

She doesn’t change the line of her gaze, eyes in the center of his torso as he is before her, but from the corner of her sight, she can see he is squeezing the lip of the counter by the flex in his forearms, by the protruding of the median vein. 

“You’re not supposed to do that,” he points out, tone low. His voice is rough, hard. He is looking at her lap, head hung low, not intimidating even as he crowds her in. He has never been this close to her before. She doesn’t need to ask what he means. He is talking about the dinner. “Don’t you remember? Be yourself.”

Temari raises her eyes, runs up the parts of his face visible to her, settling on the dark heaviness of his lashes. She bites her tongue. She stares at him. She resents him. She hates that he is so close, she hates him talking to her; hates him looking at her. He’s right — she wants someone else. 

“Myself wouldn’t be here,” she snaps, voice low and quiet. 

He is so close; breath heavy, wanting to start another fight. She recognizes it in the way he inhales, the way he grips the counter; the way he crowds her in. Must have gotten him off last night: all the anger. How fucked up. 

Temari watches him, moves her gaze back down and around the lines of his form. She thinks of him, tonight, calling her beautiful, speaking to her, of her, like he is _in love_ with her. She looks at his white shirt. His shoulders. The heat that always seems to come off him. The anger, simmering beneath his skin; beneath her own. 

“We’re too incompatible,” she says, no more than a whisper now. 

And then Temari pushes off the counter, pushing his arm aside with her body before her feet have even touched the ground, shouldering past him. The second she is out of his grip, he resumes his position, hands on the counter, head lowered, knuckles white with how tightly he is gripping the top. 

She doesn’t know if he stays like that, but she doesn’t look back, and she goes to sleep before he comes upstairs. 

* * *

When she wakes up the next morning, he isn’t there. Shikamaru’s side of the bed is empty and still unmade, the shape of his head imprinted on the wrinkled pillow. She doesn’t need to reach a hand over to know it’s cold. He hasn’t been there in a long time. Usually, when she wakes up, he is in the room, sometimes even still in bed, reading. And if he isn’t, he’s getting ready in the bathroom. 

He is gone now though. She had woken up last night to him coming into the room, but she hadn’t heard him leave this morning. She doesn’t like that. It means her body is becoming comfortable enough around him to not instinctually rouse at his coming and going, even if she is far from that in her mind. 

Temari groans and rolls over, facing the window. It’s light out, but it isn’t strong; the glare the sun casts is gentle. It’s still pretty early. She closes her eyes, holds them shut, and squeezes, hoping, maybe, that when she opens them back up, she’ll feel differently. But she doesn’t. 

Slowly, as though sore, even though she hasn’t physically exerted herself in any way in weeks, other than passively putting together some furniture, she pushes herself up, palms dipping into the mattress. Her shoulders hurt, like she has been holding them too tensely. 

She makes her way out of bed. It’s hot in here. They have central air now, but she hasn’t turned it on yet. She is sweating, and it feels like there is a light film on her skin, as though she has been sweating all night. 

Temari makes her way downstairs, barefoot, rolling her feet carefully against the wood, hand learning the form of the bannister. She hasn’t bothered to get dressed. She can smell coffee, and accessing that seems more important than anything else right now.

Shikamaru is in the dining room, visible at the head of the table from the kitchen. His knees are pulled up to his chest, hair down, a cup of coffee being nursed in his hand. He is staring at nothing, or at least nothing she can see. 

Temari stops in the kitchen and opens the cabinet for her own mug. The coffee is barely warm. She wonders how long he has been up. 

As she pours it into her cup, Shikamaru, without a word, scoots his chair back and stands up. He walks past her and away. Temari sets the coffee pot down and turns to look at the table he had just left. She hears him walking upstairs, likely back to bed. He hasn’t even bothered to push his chair back in. 

Temari pays it no mind. She sets her mug in the microwave and heads outside. The daily paper is on the driveway. Her first copy since Shikamaru subscribed yesterday. It’s cooler outside as the sun isn’t too high yet. She picks up the paper and makes her way back in. Now that she thinks about it, she’s never actually seen him asleep. He is always awake when she is. 

* * *

The lab is open and more spacious than she is expecting. Lots of white, and more technology than she has ever seen in her life. They have labs in Suna — _good_ ones — but she’s never seen anything like this. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Haku, the man giving her the tour, says. 

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”

He laughs. His smile is so bright.

She has been shown the laboratory floors, specifically the one in which her team conducts most of their work. And she’s been taken up to her work station, which is right next to Haku’s. Her desk is on the tenth floor, and is only really a small section of table in a semi-cubicle that runs in rows and rows on the upper floors of the buildings. There are dozens of others working around her, and to her back are large windows that overlook some of the university campus and the entrance to the labs. She’s working on the same team as a quarter of the people on this floor. There are some others around her age, like Haku, but most are older. 

It is all nice and good and, from what small bit she has seen on the first day, she will be able to hold this job with little complaint for the foreseeable future. 

More things make sense now too. Her boss, the associate director of the project she is working on, is Kazue Wagarashi. Temari recognizes her immediately, the moment she walks into the woman’s office. 

She understands now. She doesn’t need to be told anything. She knows what the lab will work on. 

All this time she had thought Shikamaru was the well-placed bet, the eggs in the basket. But he isn’t. Or maybe they both are. She’d just always thought her work was a shot in the dark, a _let’s see if there is anything_ to _see_ , whereas his career has been optioned to possibly end with the Daimyo, but now she understands her own value. And it feels better.

* * *

“That’s a good area,” Ruka says. “Way better than my place.”

Temari rolls her eyes, taking her sandwich as the cart attendant hands it to her. She waits as Ruka and Haku take their own. 

They’re out for lunch, walking around the section of campus where the labs are located, pointing out things they like and telling Temari about things they don’t. 

It’s a nice day out. A little humid, but not as bad as the last few days, especially not here in the shade cast by the many trees manicuring the walkways of the university campus. There are students everywhere. Temari never went to college — or to school really at all after she was old enough to join the academy. And even then, that was a government agency, mostly made up of adults, not people her own age; certainly not people like this, in shorts and sunglasses, with their long hair and tan skin, lying out on the grass without a care in the world. She looks old here, in her low heels and pastel-colored dresses, standing with two people in suits, even though they’re all not much older than the undergraduates littering the lawns.

“It’s not _that_ good. Quaint. Not too expensive.”

“Sure,” Ruka says. They take their lunch and start walking toward one of the tables set out that surrounds the sandwich cart. “But isn’t it a big ‘family’ area? And even if it’s technically a suburb — to own a house! That’s a completely different thing. You’re such a grown up.”

“You must be the youngest ones there,” Haku supplies. 

It’s all play. No one is suspicious of anything. She thinks. She hopes.

Temari laughs, finding her chair and taking a seat. She’s a little over dressed for the weather, but she isn’t sweating yet. She unwraps her sandwich and tucks her hair behind her ear. Somewhere on this campus is Shikamaru. She assumes he too is eating lunch, likely with some of his classmates. Or maybe he is meeting his advisor. Or maybe he is sitting in a room by himself doing nothing at all. 

Okay, she knows the latter is wrong. She might not like anything about him, but she knows enough to imagine, if he isn’t working, he is simply lying out on the grass taking a nap. He probably looks like one of the coeds lying on the quad across the way. 

“Haku is married and he doesn’t even own a house.”

“Not married,” he interjects. 

“Basically married.” Ruka leans in. “Anyway, all I mean is, I’m impressed.”

Temari has met a lot of people in her lab. Nobody ignores her. Anytime somebody passes, they walk right up and introduce themselves. They make it practically easy. They’re so trusting. Even these people, who work in mostly classified information, are overly credulous.

And Haku and Ruka, the only two on her team under thirty, didn’t hesitate to ask her to lunch and then spend the whole time shifting between a full-interrogation and a thorough tour of the trail on their way to the cart. 

She wonders if Shikamaru has met anyone of interest. Does he get along with his classmates? He hardly ever speaks. There is nothing charming about him. There must be though, somewhere, probably deep, _deep_ down, if he’s been in this job for so long. 

“Let’s clear some things up,” Temari says once she swallows her bite. “The _bank_ owns our house. We’re just renting it from them.”

Ruka scoffs and leans back in her chair. “The housing market, am I right?” She shakes her head. “And our parents think that they had it harder in the job market when _they_ could buy a home right out of high school with no other degree! What bullshit.”

Haku smiles to himself and Temari tries to mirror it, watching her two co-workers before her. Interesting complaint, she thinks. She’s never heard anything like it before. What privilege. 

Haku though, stops smiling after a moment, and when the conversation does pick up again, he doesn’t follow up on Ruka’s comment at all. 

* * *

Shikamaru has the driver’s seat pushed back and his long legs up on the dash, around the wheel, when she finds him. He’s busy doing a crossword and hardly pays attention when she comes into the car. 

“You don’t have enough homework your first day, you want to make your own?”

Shikamaru sighs and puts down his book. “Crosswords aren’t about work.” He says, straightening and bringing his feet down. “It’s pleasure.”

He adjusts the back of his seat and turns the key in the drive. Temari is exhausted, but she’s in a good mood. It feels good, this. Doing _something_. Living with him is just maintenance, but actually having a job, talking to people… there may be no difference in it, but right now it _feels_ different. Not even he can bring her down.

“How was it?”

Temari hooks her seatbelt and then rolls up her window. He mirrors her as he maneuvers them out of the campus and into the city. 

“Mostly a desk job,” she says. “It seems like a lot of theory and not so much of the practical work.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t know what they’re working on though. So far my team — there’s thirteen of us in the immediate group — are working on something to do with propulsion. My job has just been to take the tests already done and keep calculating velocities. I’ve been given nothing except the material, sizes, angles, and speed. I don’t even know what exactly it is they are supposed to be propelling.” Temari turns to look at him. “ _But,_ more interesting, my boss — not my direct supervisor, but the one above him: Kazue Wagarashi.”

She expects Shikamaru to be surprised. He clearly hears the emphasis too, because he glances at her for a second, brows raised, and then looks back to the street. “I don’t know who that is.”

How does he not? Wasn’t he also on the Kiri desk back in Konoha? She wants to ask. Wants to probe — the Wagarashi incident wasn’t too recent, but it was a big deal for those focused on the area. How does he not know? But she can’t ask what he did before this, so she stops herself. 

“Well, her name isn’t that anymore. Kazue Haishi. But before, six years ago, if I remember correctly… back then, she was Wagarashi.” Temari swallows. She feels the excitement of it, suddenly — of telling him something, of teaching _him_ something — down to her fingertips. “She was married to Kyūroku Wagarashi. Do you remember him?” 

Shikamaru shakes his head. He, on the other hand, isn’t at all excited about what she is saying. If they had just met, she might have even thought he wasn’t paying attention. She knows him better than that now, but while she knows that he is listening and cataloging everything she is saying, she has no inclination whether he is interested in it or not. 

Temari had seen photographs of the woman before, from around the time her husband was killed. She was on the radar for a while back then. But she wasn’t found and then, slowly, forgotten about. No one was looking _for_ her in an active way, she thinks — Temari was young, so she doesn’t actually _know_ — but they were looking for information about her. They wanted her movements noted, her work known. 

“He was killed,” Temari informs him, licking her lips. Shikamaru keeps his gaze on the road, book of crosswords in his lap, dark circles under his eyes. “Something petty. Some clan disagreement. I don’t know. I don’t remember. But his wife…” Temari exhales and, still sitting sideways, facing him, leans her shoulder against her seat, “Kazue. She was one of the top scientists from the Sky who had retired when they got married. His death was a whole ado for her.”

That perks him up. He looks at her again, enough understanding in his gaze that she doesn’t have to continue, but she does anyway, feeling the smirk of satisfaction settle into place. Why is she so happy to be right? She shouldn’t be this happy to beat him — and it’s not like she _had beaten_ him in any real way. But his attention, his interest, it… she feels satisfied in having retrieved something he rarely gave. But it’s meaningless. Absolutely without purpose. It doesn’t mean she dislikes him _less_. 

“She disappeared after that. We thought she went back to the Sky. But nobody knew. No trace.”

Temari exhales and leans back in her seat fully to face forward.

“She was a top inventor though. Before that.”

“That’s good,” Shikamaru says after a long while. They both understand why. That’s what the Sky does — it’s what they’re known for: weaponry. The Sky is part of the Water Lands Alliance — all of them, Tea, Water, Silence, Sky, Hot Water, Frost, all the islands… even Lightning on the brink — but that didn’t necessarily mean that the Sky was providing weaponry _for_ the Water. Still, there were treaties between all of them in the wake of the wars. All of them together were the threat posed to their homelands. “You’ll have to find out as much as you can.”

Temari blinks. There is a lot of traffic right now. Rush hour, after five pm. Shikamaru finished class earlier. Maybe she’ll start taking the bus so he can do work instead of sitting around, doing the crossword, waiting for her. 

She’s been thinking that they, her superiors, knew what Kazue Wagarashi — Haishi — was doing… but maybe not. Maybe Suna didn’t know? Maybe it _is_ a coincidence? 

She has no way, yet, of contacting them, except to possibly break cover by calling the embassy. No need for that though — not now, hopefully not ever. 

Temari glances out the window. 

“Meet anyone else?” Shikamaru asks after a few minutes. 

She turns back to look at him, remembers why exactly she is here. 

“Yes,” she says, and starts going through everything she’d seen at work. 

* * *

She is running now. 

Back on Jiro she’d bought clothes to exercise in — a pair of shorts, sports bra, tee shirt, and sneakers — but she doesn’t actually do anything until their second day of work. It’s only been a few weeks since she was at the academy, but she can already feel herself getting weaker. She’s lost weight, if anything, because it’s hard to eat around Shikamaru, but she can tell, in the way she feels it just _touch_ her quads to walk up to the second floor, that her muscle is deteriorating quicker than she’d imagined. 

At the beach, she’d realized that she would probably never again be as strong as she is now. It’s not a _bad_ thing. She’s definitively not upset about it. But it’s a realization — she will never have the need to be as strong on a daily basis. She will never have classes like she had before. Maintaining this strength without dedicated gym time is impossible, and going to the gym with such dedication doesn’t help her cover of easy, _soft_ housewife. 

Temari is half a mile from her house, running through parts of the neighborhood she hasn’t seen before. 

Shikamaru hadn’t wanted to come. She hadn’t invited him, of course, but she told him where she was going and he just waved her off. He’s awake, last she saw, but trying to go back to sleep. Or maybe just resting before he gets out of bed. 

Maybe he doesn’t think he needs to exercise. Maybe he is one of those people who can naturally pack a punch. Or maybe, if they’re ever having to chase someone (or worse, run away from someone), he won’t be able to keep up and it will all be up to her. She doesn’t know. She’s never seen him do much of anything. 

It’s been almost three weeks and Temari can feel the effects. Her chest is burning. She isn’t breathing properly. She always hated running. She wants to believe it will get better, but she knows it won’t. Maybe she can find something else that is nondescript enough to keep her moderately-capable. Her training will take her a very long way, but there has to be some other compliment to her acquired instinct. 

It is while she is doing this — running, panting, sweating, _dying_ — that she sees her first possible threat. 

It is a car, driven by what looks like a young woman, that passes her once, and then, only a few minutes later, again. 

The car is tan, not particularly memorable. Temari notes the model, as she does for every car that passes her, and has almost forgotten about it when the car turns the corner and comes back. 

It could be an accident. A lost driver, or a nearby resident who forgot something at home. She’d looked calm, in the few seconds Temari had seen her face, and she didn’t glance at Temari once — odd, when Temari was the sole other person on the street. But who knows, she may have been too distracted to notice. Plus, if it were something to worry about, it meant there was much more in store for Temari. If Kiri suspects her — ever, but especially now when neither of them have done anything except move in — her fate is, in most respects, already sealed. 

She’s being paranoid. 

Temari turns a corner and keeps running. She’s already hit the halfway mark and is just running back, in a large loop, to her house. She doesn’t see the car, or anything that catches her eye in any real way, for the rest of her run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much everyone who has been reading. means the world to me. deep thank-you to appy and carol, always.


	5. Chapter 5

“Temari!” 

She turns, and smiles, slow and easy, as though he has caught her unaware. 

“Hey,” she says as he approaches her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “I was just running errands.”

Shikamaru looks good. He looks like a prepossessing student, handsome and interested and brimming with youth. 

It’s Thursday of her first week. She’d spent her lunch hour, after that first day, eating in the building cafeteria, but she has things to do during lunch today. She has the car. 

Temari lifts her bag from the pharmacy she’d just walked out of to demonstrate what she’d been buying. She is well aware they’re being watched. 

“We have a project.”

“A group assignment? Already?”

Shikamaru brings a hand to the back his neck, rocking back on his heels. The two men and one woman he had been meeting with, sitting at a table just a few feet behind him, are looking at her. She wonders, for people having met Shikamaru beforehand, what sort of impression she makes as his wife. 

“We were just assigned.” He swallows, lowers his hand, and then thinks twice and reaches out to put it on her elbow. “We’re discussing now. Come have lunch with us.”

Temari bites her lower lip and looks past him for only a moment. The three classmates aren’t looking at her anymore. 

“I don’t have too much time,” she sighs, relents. “But I’ll come sit with you for a minute.”

Shikamaru nods and drops his fingers from her skin. She hasn’t seen him during the middle of the day for a few days now, and, usually, when it is just the two of them, there is no need for him to look her in the eyes. Sometimes, not consciously, she forgets how dark they are.

They head over to his table and he pulls up an extra chair, introducing his wife. The people all smile, extend their hands, and then quickly move back to the task of their project as soon as she sits down. Shikamaru, beside her, gives her his ice tea — odd, he usually only drinks water — and Temari sips on it, watching the students. She touches her wedding ring. They all sound very passionate… much more enthusiastic than he does. How lame, she thinks, crossing her legs. If she’d stumbled on these kids, she would surely find Shikamaru the most interesting. After all, even as he keeps quiet, it’s apparent to everyone here that his mind is working faster than anyone else’s. And he is dark and handsome and holds, as if protectively, a hand on Temari’s knee. But, unfortunately, she does know him. And he’s not intriguing at all. 

He is smart, but doesn’t work hard, so he’s probably a shit participant for a group project. She hopes he’ll do more, here, than he has in their marriage, but who knows. 

She stays for half an hour, his hand on her the whole time, patiently categorizing the people before them, before she excuses herself and goes back to work. She has other things to do than play housewife. 

* * *

Friday morning she comes upstairs after her run to find Shikamaru in the bathroom with the door open, shaving. She has never actually seen him do anything quite so domestic. They get dressed in private, usually, go to sleep in the dark, and even often wake up by themselves. She’s never once seen him shave or brush his teeth or any of those things. 

Here he is though, the bathroom door wide open, and him, in his pajamas, shaving over the sink. 

Temari purposefully doesn’t stop to observe him. She feels as though she has walked in on something she isn’t meant to see, though of course he’s heard her coming up the stairs and must have known she was bound to arrive in this room.

“I can shower down the hall,” she says, going to the closet to find her clothes for the day. She pauses, thinks about it, and exhales. They haven’t got towels for there yet, so she’ll have to reach past him for one. 

“I’m almost done,” he says, as though her walking in on what he had obviously considered an intimate moment for the last few weeks they’ve been together (intimate enough to be kept private) is nothing noteworthy or unusual. Temari glances over her shoulder, looks as he monitors his skin carefully in the mirror. He has so much hair and it is so dark, he probably does this every morning and she’s just never noticed; never even thought about it. “Wait a minute.”

She stops, turns fully around, and drops the clothes she had decided to wear on the bed. 

“Sure,” she says, walking closer. She stops in the doorway and leans against it, not quite coming into the bathroom, but close enough that she can smell him. “What’s going on?”

In the mirror, almost out of her line of sight, she sees him eye her for a second before returning to his task. 

“Your ring,” Shikamaru says, bringing the razor down in a straight line, cutting through the white foam. “You play with it too much.”

She glances down at her hands, pulling the ring halfway off before pushing it back down her finger. 

“What?”

Shikamaru stops. There is still shaving cream on his face, but he is apparently satisfied. He turns his head in the mirror, looking over his handiwork, before turning on the tap and splashing water on his face. She watches all of this, already angry at whatever he is going to say. Running isn’t relieving any stress, it seems. 

He reaches for the towel hanging on the back of the door to dry his skin and then opens the door wider to come only inches from her. 

“You touch it too much.”

“Excuse me.” She sucks her teeth, looks down, and then looks back up. “I didn’t realize you were such an expert in marital cues.”

Shikamaru leans closer. “You were doing it yesterday at lunch. And you did it at the neighbor’s too. You should be more confident in your marriage. More sure.”

God, she hates him. It’s hard to even remember how she had once genuinely thought they’d somewhat, even platonically, get along. 

“Oh,” Temari tilts her head, blinks. “More confident in you?”

“I am your husband.”

“Hm,” she raises a finger to tap her chin, as though mulling this over. “Yes, my one and only.”

He leans in, rests his forearm on the doorway above her head, closing her against the frame. 

“‘Til death do us part.” He swallows, practically whispers. 

Her mouth feels dry. She itches to reach up, to touch him. He’s too close to get much movement, but she could hurt him anyway. She wants to reach into his skin and bury a bullet in his bones.

She’s pressed her fingers into bullet wounds before — it’s always gross and she’s never once enjoyed it, but suddenly, so starkly she practically forgets where she is, she wants him to be shot. She wants a bloody hole in his body that she can stick her fingers into. She wants to feel the hard edge of a bullet beneath the pad of her finger and _press_ it further into him. She wants him to groan, to scream, to _feel_ the sharp, sharp point of fire that would bring. 

It’s never once been something that she has wanted. Not _once_. But she wants it now. She wants to hurt him so badly. To wound him, physically, like that. And she feels it, instantaneously, in the moment, as she looks up at him. The image is so immediate and so palpable, she can taste it on her tongue. 

What the fuck is wrong with her?

“Oh,” Shikamaru says, when it is clear she has no follow up. “And please, after you shower, leave the curtain closed so it can air out.” She expects him to lean closer to drive the point home, but all he does is push off the doorframe and take a step out of the bathroom. “Otherwise the fabric will get moldy.”

Temari doesn’t turn, doesn’t watch him walk out. Her hands are in fists by her side, but she hardly realizes it until he has left the bedroom, still in his pajamas, and she has to consciously unclench them. 

It hasn’t been nonstop. And usually it isn’t much (it’s never been as bad as that first night). But he riles her in a way no one else ever has. She doesn’t know if it’s because of their situation — if his proximity to her is the cause of her deep rooted, entire loathing — or if it just something about _him_ personally. 

She takes a deep breath. They’re too different. She’d hoped, when it was all said and done, they would compatibly get on, their mutual situation a bonding factor. Like her uncle said. But that hasn’t happened. Instead, their mutual disgust of the other is front and center. They don’t fight _all_ the time, but if they’re interacting in any real way, it’s a fight. If they aren’t discussing work, they’re fighting. She’s truly never had any urge to actually _hurt_ another; she’s never _wanted_ to torture someone, and yet here she is, wishing him pain, _craving_ , deep in her gut, to cause him suffering. No one has ever brought anything that passionate out of her. They’re growing further apart every day. 

When Temari does, eventually, gather herself enough to shower, she purposefully, pettily, leaves the curtain drawn aside, wet and bunched together at the edge of the bathtub. 

* * *

At the end of their first week, Temari goes to the museum. It feels like it has been ages since she proposed they go, way back on the honeymoon, when she thought things between them might be different. But they aren’t. And they won’t be. 

She starts with an art museum. She thinks, perhaps, history would be better and would teach her more of the culture she wants to learn about, but she finds herself inside the National Gallery instead.

Temari starts on the top floor where, for the most part, they seem to start with the oldest works. From the map, she has gathered that the preliminary curation goes chronologically, but then more famous artists, a few names she even recognizes, are spread out differently. 

She is there, on the topmost floor, only twenty minutes into her viewing, only through one section of the floor, when a woman comes to stand beside her and observe the same picture. There aren’t many people here first thing on a Saturday morning. There are some families with young children, but they’re all on the lower floors. The only people around her, all five of them, are senior citizens who wander about looking like they’ve spent lots of time studying these paintings already. This woman is not the first to stand beside Temari as she observes a piece, but there haven’t been many, and she is certainly the youngest, which is what catches Temari’s eye first. 

“I’ve always disliked this picture,” the woman says. Her voice is throaty and lowered, as though she is sharing a secret between them. 

Temari turns to see her, for only a second, before looking back at the artwork. 

Ha, she thinks, even as she is considering whether or not it is worth it to ditch these shoes when she runs and whether the security cameras in this room would allow for enough blind spots in the corner to kill this woman, Shikamaru was wrong! 

The woman is only a few years older than Temari, with dark black hair in a low ponytail and a pointed nose. She isn’t wearing a dress, as Temari is, but she is likewise wearing a red suit that wouldn’t allow her much physical movement. 

It’s the same woman who drove past Temari twice while on her run three days ago. 

“Why?” Temari asks. It’s only a picture of the sea. There isn’t much detail, which Temari understands is how paintings were done a long time ago, or something… but she’s hardly paying attention to it now. There is an exit fifty feet to her left. 

“It looks cold.” The woman hums. “Doesn’t it? The water looks cruel. Unforgiving. It’s not moving, no waves, but you can tell… it would be ice to swim in. Hm… would someone actually want this on their wall?”

Temari swallows. She told Shikamaru. She told him! And he was _so sure,_ standing in the kitchen when she got back from that first run, that she was mistaken. That this car going by twice was just a coincidence, that it was best to keep their schedule. 

We haven’t done anything wrong yet, he’d said, and we haven’t done anything right either. We’d know if they were already onto us.

“Who are you?” Temari asks instead. Her best bet is to make a go for the exit and hope there are no cameras there. 

The woman turns now to look at Temari. She tilts her head. “Would you like to get coffee?”

Temari stays silent. Her pulse is racing. 

“ _Temari_ ,” the woman says, and Temari takes a step back. They must be watching her. There will be more of them here. Dozens. They’ll try to turn her. Or they’ll hurt her until she reveals what she knows. They’ll have Shikamaru now, if they already know her name, but they might leave him alone if they think there is a chance she’ll work for them. “Don’t worry.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m Hinoto.” The woman says. And then, even though Temari has now put over ten feet between them, the woman extends her hand. “I’m your handler.”

* * *

Shikamaru, papers laid out on the table, is surprised to see her arrive home before noon. 

“What happened?” He asks, sharply, as soon as he sees her come to a halt in the kitchen entrance, a medium-sized suitcase in her hand.

“I met our handler.” 

Shikamaru exhales, standing up. Temari walks over and places the suitcase on the table atop his work, unbuckling it. 

“Her name is Hinoto. She approached me at the museum. Young, pretty.”

“Are you okay?”

Temari looks over at him, frowning. 

“Um. Fine.”

And then they look back to the suitcase. It holds mostly weapons. Six pistols, one rifle, and a few of the harder items to find when making a detonation device. 

“We have a job?”

“No. She said it’s just to be safe. Get us set up. They’ll have more, eventually.”

“This is it, then.”

Shikamaru reaches forward, grabs one of the packages and rips it open. It’s a code book. 

Underneath the packaged weapons are bottles and syringes. She spots a good amount of morphine and a tiny bottle of pills she recognizes as cyanide tablets. There is more medical equipment than what they’d bought. There’s even some makeup. And disguises.

“We should hide some of this around the city. Just in case.”

“Hinoto said there was a safe-house six miles east, but there are surely more we haven’t been told about yet. We should do a drive-by.”

“Still.” Shikamaru flips through the code book. Beneath all of it is a radio system. “Let’s figure out where to keep this.”

“Oh,” she says, “bedroom closet. Easy.” It’s where she’s hidden Kankuro’s doll and her mother’s shopping list.

Shikamaru raises his brows and looks over at her. 

“Storage room.”

Temari rolls her eyes. They will never agree on anything, will they?

* * *

“Shikamaru.”

There isn’t even a pause as he turns the page. He doesn’t even debate whether to ignore her or not. 

“Shikamaru.”

He turns the next page of his book and then she watches as he fingers the page he is on, closing the book around the digit, saving his spot. 

“I don’t like this mattress.”

“It’s the only one we have.” He says, keeping his voice even, as though trying not to let her get to him. “You can sleep on the couch.”

Temari pushes herself up to sit, blankets pooling around her hips. “I’m serious,” she says. She isn’t being petulant. She means this. “It sinks on my side.”

Shikamaru closes his eyes for a few seconds and then sits up as well, still holding his book where he left off. 

“It’s brand new.”

“Just switch sides with me.”

“No.” He huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Then I would sink down too.”

Temari frowns. She can’t get to sleep, even though her eyelids feel heavy, her body wanting it.

“Does your side dip?”

“No.”

A sigh. “Then maybe I’m just too heavy?” It’s irrational, but her side definitely dips down more than it should. “We can switch and you will bring this side back up and then we can switch again?”

“Ugh,” he groans, hits his head back against the headboard. “Temari.”

It’s late and, although she usually goes to sleep first, she knows he is tired and wanting to be conked out soon. 

But she watches, surprised, as he actually puts down his book on the bedside table, pushes the covers off, and comes to stand by her side of the bed. She’s always figured he is used to sleeping with another because he has consistently chosen the same side of the bed, always, as though he’s used to only being afforded a small part of the mattress and so naturally goes to the right side. But he should be more open, now that he’s with her, to not being so inflexible. She thinks this, but is still taken aback when it actually happens. 

“Really?” She asks. 

Shikamaru rubs his eyes, thoroughly depleted, as though he can’t even muster the energy to argue with her. 

“Just get up.”

Temari starts to scoot over to his side, but he just waves a hand. “No, get _out_.”

She pauses. She doesn’t really want to fight either, but she can’t figure out what he is getting at. Carefully, now on his side of the bed, the sheet warm against the back of her thighs and palms of her hands from where he was just lying, Temari throws her feet over the edge and comes to stand. 

“Here,” he says, grabbing the blankets and pulling them off. She follows, grabbing his side and pulling them down, eyeing him carefully the whole time. With his hair down, when he bends over, his face is cast in shadow. 

And then, with the blankets fully on the floor, top sheet untucked from the mattress, Shikamaru reaches under the mattress and lifts the edge out of the frame and then turns it. He is just turning the whole thing, the head down to where the foot was. 

Temari, genuinely amazed, finds herself smiling as he works, his biceps engaged as he turns the heavy mattress 180°.

“Better?” He says when he is done. 

She reaches down and grabs the blankets on the floor and spreads them back over the bed. She will make it properly, re-tucking everything, in the morning. 

“Very.” She says and then crawls on her hands and knees across the bed from his side to hers. 

Wow. She’s never seen him put real effort into anything except when he wants to fight (usually when she is the only one who wants it, he just gives up, but when they both want it (the majority of the time) they’re always having to lower their voices and they only eventually stop when one of them walks out or they just get too tired and fall asleep in this very bed with over two feet between them). 

“Good.” He says, watching her settle back under the covers before he makes his way — walking around, not crawling over her — to his side. “Then stop complaining. It’s too troublesome.” 

Temari, still (stupidly) excited at his minor effort, lays down and turns off the lamp on her bedside table. She falls asleep before he has stopped reading.

* * *

The first month passes like this. She has a pretty set routine: wake up, run, go to work, come home, hang out mostly on her own, go to sleep. 

It has eased up since they first moved in — things are more formulaic now. They still fight, almost daily, but it’s mostly minor disagreements and has never been as bad as it was that first night, never as cruel as it could be. It’s a mutual curbing, but not one born out of any wayward feeling, only the impossibility of living in constant agitation (even if fighting is the only time she ever feels truly herself).

But it _has_ abated, some. She has yet again to wish for the feel of digging her fingers into his body, blood warm beneath her nails, eliciting nothing but pain from him… _so_ … that’s something, right?

In any sense, it’s not as hard as it once was. She hates being at home (being in that home is suffocating), but she also hates being anywhere else. Hinoto, though not often seen, is a nice reprieve. It’s at least one other person who knows her not as Temari Nara. 

How naïve, she thinks, she was, coming into this. She remembers listening to the Councilor give her the assignment and picturing what her life would look like. She knew all she could, then. She was picturing only what she was able to picture. But did she really know anything? 

Nothing could prepare her for this. Nothing. 

Still — even knowing all this, even having experienced it now — she continues to feel, deep in her gut, knowing it’s not true, that it’s going to end. She feels like, one day, she’ll remember what it is like to be happy. 

Of course she knows it won’t happen. But she _feels_ like it will. Feels like, one day, it will all be over. She and Shikamaru will complete their mission and then she will be sent home. She will see her friends. She will see her brothers. She will tell them all about this. She will describe to them her home, her job, her clothes and the books she reads and the tv shows she watches and the records she buys. She will tell them about him. About her husband, though he won’t be her husband then; and she will describe the way he sits and the feeling of silence around him and how dark his eyes are and how quickly he thinks and how he irritates her and how it feels to hold his hand. She will tell them all about her life, all about what life is like here, how the people are different and unburdened and how they smile _so easily_ (and, although this she won’t say, how Shikamaru sometimes seem to be more like them than like her). 

Except that will never happen. It will always be like this. This will never end. She will never feel the honest and total unburdening of being completely herself, expressing her own desires and being who she wants to be. 

Instead, she will always be someone else. Even when she doesn’t necessarily have to be, when it is just the two of them, she is still trying to be different, to more easily accommodate him. It’s shitty for everyone, she knows, that the only time they are truly acting as they want to is when they’re arguing.

Though that has lessened. They really don’t argue as much, and even if it is daily, it’s still going down in comparison to where it was. But they’re not _better_. It has settled into long looks of anger. It’s mutual, this. He, too, hates her. 

She’ll admit there is an excitement to it, a thrill to hurting him, to letting him hurt her. But it’s not _good_. It’s not healthy. And she can feel it, his hatred. She can feel the way he looks at her. His gaze, often, is painful. 

It’s ridiculous, she knows. It’s absolutely astonishing that they were put together. She doubts she would feel this strongly toward any other partner. It must have been completely random, complete and utter coincidence, because not one person with any sense would have considered it after any real rumination. 

That’s something she would tell Gaara too. If this ended, if she could speak to him again (after years and years of not speaking to him), she would tell him, as he moved up the political chain, to do better. To find two people who get along, two people who maybe _want_ to be together. It’s a successful system, when it works. But for people like her, with people they hate, it’s nothing but misery. 

* * *

Temari, not having slept much the night before, sleeps in late one Wednesday morning. She is eating a piece of toast Shikamaru had shoved at her as she made her way to the car, still trying to put on her left shoe — extra difficult with heels —, as they drive to work and school. 

When she came downstairs, Shikamaru had been leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, eyes trained across the foyer to the tv in the living room. She’d stopped, followed his gaze to the news program it was on, and listened as the anchor discussed movements in Suna. 

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. It’s nothing particularly important. Nothing she was too worried about. The Tsuchikage had taken an unexpected trip to her home country to meet with the Kazekage. Suna was already in a public alliance with Konoha, but it was known that lots of countries further west weren’t at odds with each other. There was free travel between Iwa and Suna and lots of shared trade. The Tsuchikage had visited before. They weren’t _enemies_ (though technically there were no ‘enemies’… the wars were _over_ , as far as the official record went). 

Still, she was surprised by the newscaster’s fear. _A sign of imminent threat to the newly aligned Water Lands_ , he’d said. 

Temari listened for another few minutes about the, apparently, “dire” threat of these two countries talking, and then was rushed on when she saw the time on the clock above the stove and had to run upstairs to get dressed. 

Now she leans her head against the window as the buildings pass, eyeing the office people on their way to work in the business district. 

Temari takes a bite of her toast. She could fall asleep right here, temple pressed against the glass, cool in the morning sun, surrounded by the bustle of the city on a weekday. 

She’s thinking about them though — about the people before her. She wonders if the news has worried them. Are they really thinking military movements are being made in any significant way? Do they think the Kazekage is so reckless as to declare a full out war because of one more significant alliance?

They’re not scared in any _real_ way, she knows that. They don’t know how to be. Their cities have never been ravaged. They have no understanding how fragile happiness can be. 

But they are worried about Suna. About Iwa. About Konoha. Worried as though those countries have no sense. Threatened, as though there is no threat already; their safety periled by one meeting, as though they are safe right now. 

“Does it bother you?” She asks, the toast cold in her hand by now. “The way they report things?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him turn his eyes from the road to her. She is wearing a blue dress today, and her cardigan sits in her lap. She feels his gaze on her bare shoulder for a moment before he refocuses ahead. 

“Like nothing before was ever a threat?” She continues. “Like they’re untouchable?” She swallows, closes her eyes, but even behind her eyelids, she is still seeing the men and women bustling around. “Their military isn’t made up of _their_ people as far as they’re concerned.”

She means that they have young men and women, surely, dying too. Risking their lives, too. But they never think of that. These people don’t remember that — that whatever safety assurances they have are on the backs of their own people, the ones who sacrifice themselves. These people, the ones around her… they sacrifice _nothing_. 

“No.” He says. She isn’t really surprised by it, but she had also expected him to agree, even if just a bit. “Why should civilians be so tough all the time?” 

Shikamaru slows at the light, but he doesn’t look at her. 

“They don’t sign up for it,” he says, as the light changes. “Is there something wrong with letting them be peaceful?”

It’s only five more minutes to her side of campus. 

“It’s ignorant.” She says, eventually, as they pull into the lot at the labs. He parks by the entrance and watches her as she straightens. “They’re peaceful at the price of real lives. Lives of their own, generally less privileged people.” 

Before he can respond, before she even realizes how quickly she is moving, she is unhooked, toast in one hand, bag over her shoulder, and sweater under her arm, her slammed car door separating them. 

He looks at her through the window and Temari, paused, exhales at his expression and then turns on her heel and makes her way into the building. 

* * *

It’s a topic, for a few minutes, at the water-cooler that day at work. Someone brings up Suna and a brief conversation ensues. There are mentions of some Wind scientists she doesn’t know, but who her coworkers obviously do as their main competitors on the world-stage. And one man says something about how brilliant some young guy over there is, and how, if they do go to war, hopefully they can get the young guy to come work for them. 

“We’d win, obviously,” another person says. 

Temari, silent, sips on her water and listens, offering nothing. 

Obviously, she plays over in her mind. Obviously. 

Naïve. 

* * *

Temari was out to dinner with Ruka on Thursday and when she comes home, Shikamaru has the lights dimmed and is reading a book on the couch. 

Without turning up the lights, Temari walks into the kitchen, seeing his work spread out on the dining room table. She walks over to it, knowing Shikamaru is paying attention to her even if he hasn’t said anything since she arrived. His work isn’t organized at all. She spots half of an article from the paper archive on one side of his mess and the latter half upside down on the other. He’d gone through so much to get that archived article! 

“How’s the paper coming?” She asks, loud enough for him to clearly hear it over in the living room. It’s obviously not done. It’s probably hardly been touched. He has all the material, she thinks, from what he has told her, out on the table. He needs to start writing and figure out how exactly he is going to draw on these sources. But that’s not easy — that’s the majority of work! And it’s due tomorrow!

“Tiresome.” Shikamaru answers casually, as though he has already done all of it.

Temari huffs. He’s not doing anything right now. He’s not even reading books related to Kiri culture or anything relevant to their positions. 

And this is big — it’s his first _real_ paper since school began. He has to ace this. He has to ace everything. He must.

She puts her bag down on one of the chairs and walks, slowly, making a point to click her shoes against the floor, over to where he lays out on the couch, limbs long, one foot planted on the floor. 

He lowers his book, carefully, when she stops over him, casting his face and chest in shadow. 

“You have a job,” she says. She’s maybe been drinking a little bit. 

Shikamaru shrugs, graceful even though he’s lying down, and meets her eyes. “Things work out for me.”

Temari watches him watch her, watches the rise and fall of his chest. 

She swallows. “I’m not resting my success on the lapels of your supposed luck, Shikamaru.”

He is looking at her lips as she says his name, she can tell, even a few feet away. 

After a moment, clearly unimpressed, he raises his book back up. “You’ll see,” he says, going back to his reading. 

God, he annoys her. It annoys her even more that she thinks he’s probably right and he will finish it in time and he’ll finish it _well_.

Still, she does sit down after she can’t sleep and drafts an outline of the paper as best she can from what he has told her and what she has seen (it’s been ages since she’s had to do anything like this, but she understands what type of product is desired). And when she wakes up in the morning, a copy of the finished assignment — all written — is left for her on the counter. She is taking the bus today; he had an early meeting with his professor. She wonders if he wants her to read it. 

She probably won’t — he probably changed everything she did just to spite her — but she takes the copy with her to work anyway. Good to have something in case the bus ride gets too boring. 

* * *

It’s not just his lack of effort towards school that annoys her. 

Half the time that he is supposed to be doing school work (which he almost never does), he is actually working on things that he is definitely _not_ supposed to be doing. 

She’s caught him half a dozen times now on the floor of the office — what they’ve began calling the first of the two empty rooms on the second floor — in the middle of the night, a handful books open before him and a string of some letters or symbols or numbers (or worse, combinations of all of them), written and rewritten dozens of times over that are spread about the room. 

She _knows_ he likes this kind of thing. She knows he purposefully wakes up in the middle of the night because she isn’t there and he can wholly focus and hone in on a solution. She knows that code-breaking is something he loves, deep in his gut, even though he has never mentioned it to her. When she thinks about it, which she usually doesn’t, she imagines that he loves the posture of a puzzle no one has yet solved and the rush of finding the right solution. She imagines he likes being right. She imagines he’s pretty good at this. 

But she hates that he does it. He should be sleeping; resting, so he wouldn’t nap so much in the middle of the day. If he is going to put his effort into anything, it should be his _actual_ work, which he is supposed to be doing. Also, they have experts for this kind of thing, they don’t need to be sending it here, risking its exposure by transmitting it to a covert operative. And doing it here, having all these books and wasted paper as he figures things out, is practically asking someone to find them. They don’t keep things like this at home because it poses an extra risk. Their heaviest weapons, provided by Hinoto, are buried outside of the city. 

She’s jealous too though. She has no assignments, nothing yet to do, except sit and act pretty. Shikamaru, in a way, is at least doing something tangibly and temporally valuable. 

She doesn’t say this though. She doesn’t tell him to stop. She tells him to do his actual work — and sometimes he even listens to her — but she doesn’t tell him to _stop_ this. It’s not his fault they suddenly seem to need a field agent for some desk work all the way back in his home country. So she keeps quiet about that. After all, she can’t blame him. At least he has something, anything, that seems to make him happy. 

* * *

They’re parked in Hinoto’s car when Hinoto first asks her about him. It’s not Hinoto’s usual car — this one is a light gray and blends in well in the early evening mist, which has grown thicker as October begins. The heat is blasting and a jazz station plays on the radio.

She’s been out on her first solo-assignment (finally), but it was nothing interesting. Just a drop. A package exchanged at a bar. She hadn’t even seen the recipient receive it, she’d just seen him enter and then she left, leaving it where she was told to. He didn’t see her, but she wore a short-haired wig and bright red lipstick just in case. Both are still on when she meets with Hinoto, six blocks down from the site and one from the bus station. 

“How are things going?” Hinoto asks in that deep voice of hers. She talks slowly, a trait that gives her words more weight than they’re probably worth. 

Temari doesn’t necessarily like her, and even though they’ve been meeting for over two months, she doesn’t think she has any real gauge on Hinoto’s personality. The woman’s way of handling them is to keep those above her at an arm’s length, in a way that feels isolating to Temari and Shikamaru. As though she and Shikamaru, the ones actually on the ground, taking risks, are simply dolls being told what to do as playthings rather than the actual soldiers they’ve been trained to be. 

She doesn’t dislike Hinoto though. Sometimes it even feels like Hinoto, with her throaty voice and red pearl earrings and hair that seems to turn blue in a particular light, is the closest ally Temari has. 

Now, she’s finished checking in, which she thought was unnecessary for such an easy and clear-cut assignment, and is about to leave the car when Hinoto poses the question. 

How _are_ things going?

She means in life. In her work. In her marriage. 

For a moment, Temari is stunned still by the question. She understands what it means.

“Are you asking me to report on him?”

Hinoto makes a noise, surprised at the response itself. “Is there a reason you wouldn’t?”

Instinctively she thinks she shouldn’t. “Well.” Temari stares at her, takes in her easy features and thinks of the situation. “You’re from Konoha.”

And Hinoto is. Temari knows this, remembers it each time she looks at the other woman. 

Still, even after all this, she never has anyone _truly_ on her side. 

Hinoto and Shikamaru don’t seem to get along though. Shikamaru, when he does speak to her, which is rarely (at least when Temari is there — usually they each see Hinoto on their own), is short with her. Temari imagines, when they do meet by themselves, they must have things in common. They must know the same people back home, right? Maybe she knows his parents and siblings and whatever girlfriend he had left behind. Surely they have lots in common, lots to discuss, when Temari isn’t there. 

“I’m your handler.” Hinoto says, as though that is clear enough. “I report directly to Suna.”

She hadn’t known that — that Hinoto was reporting to Suna and not Kononha. There is no way right now to verify it, but something like that would make sense. It was a mutual agreement, an aligned-effort — Temari was not contracted _to_ Konoha. She worked for them as much as Shikamaru worked for Suna. Having their Konoha handler report to Suna would keep Suna on equal footing.

Temari huffs. “No.” She says, as report. “There isn’t.”

Hinoto waits, seemingly knowing Temari is still considering this despite her refusal. 

And she is. She thinks about this, leaning back in her seat, eyes falling straight ahead to focus on the dim road before them. She thinks of Shikamaru. 

“He is too soft.” She says after a long while. 

Hinoto understands what she means. 

Temari doesn’t know why she has said it, really, except she does believe it. And she does think it’s a problem. This — _this_ — has to be personal. If she looked at this life as simply an assignment, as objective as writing a paper or taking an exam, she wouldn’t survive. The drive, the motivation, _has_ to be revenge. It must be. She must maintain the belief that these people hurt her people. She _must_ believe that she is bettering the world by being here. That she is stopping a war. That she is protecting _her_ people. Otherwise she will never make it. 

Shikamaru is too soft. He is too easy. He isn’t motivated by a darker anger. She knows that, sees it in the way he likes it here, in the way he doesn’t blame the people, in the way he sees all politick as inherently problematic. He is too soft. 

“Also,” she says, after a minute, “stop giving him so much work. He has other things to do.”

Hinoto tilts her head. Hums, again, as though Temari doesn’t understand something. She supposes she doesn’t. 

“Shikamaru asks for that work. He put in a request your second week.”

Temari bites her tongue. Ridiculous. 

“And you _gave_ it to him?”

“He is one of the best bookbreakers we have.”

Temari looks back toward her handler. Really? He’s smart, she knows, and capable, but he’s so young. 

“Then why is he here? In the field and not behind a desk where he can be of more use to you?”

Hinoto stops. Shrugs. And then glances down at her watch. A saxophone blares on the radio. 

“The next bus should arrive in ninety seconds.”

So, that’s it then. 

Temari licks her lips and reaches up to pull off her wig. She shakes her hair out, leaving it down, and folds the wig into her purse before heading out. Hinoto drives off before Temari has even taken a step away from the curb. 

* * *

In mid-October, almost two months to the day they arrived in Kiri, they go out as a couple to a dinner for the second time since their dinner with Kahyo. 

It’s much easier this time. She knows how Shikamaru is going to act. She understands what he will say. She understands how they will touch. And she likes his friends — one of them she’d met before when she joined his project group for lunch their first week — but the others are all new to her. They all _know_ her though. She even gets two hugs upon meeting them, as though they have been close for a long time. She wonders what he says to them about her that makes meeting her of interest. 

She knows the only reason they’re even out tonight is because she keeps pressuring Shikamaru into talking to his classmates (she sometimes wonders if he ever had any friends growing up, he seems like such a loner) and, for reasons mostly beyond her, they really seem to like him and invite him out almost every weekend. 

This is the first time they’ve joined — _Even though Shikamaru says you spend most nights at home doing boring, married-people things_ , one of the girls says when she arrives. She’s shuffled around so that they aren’t sitting together and she is squished between one girl who keeps making eyes at Shikamaru and a boy named Chojuro that Shikamaru has mentioned before.

Temari laughs at the stories and tells her own and briefly talks about her work, but settles into mostly listening to them discuss classes and classmates and things professors said and stupid stories related solely to their school lives. It’s funny, she muses, to listen to this whole, apparently eventful, life Shikamaru has when they’re apart every day. He has friends and schedules and a good time that she isn’t at all privy to. Sure, the man she knows is more real than the one before her now, but they at least get to see him happy (or acting happy, which isn’t _better_ , but also, maybe it is… maybe she wants it?). 

In all actuality, Temari knows the experience is mutual. At work, the life she paints, the husband she has, are very different than the reality. But it is interesting to see it here, even though she knows it is all contrived, as Shikamaru’s eyes meet hers from the other side of the table, gaze as dark as ever. 

Temari spends most of the night talking to Chojuro. He doesn’t say much, so it’s not a very free-flowing conversation, but she thinks he likes her, more than he should, by the end of the night. 

After a while, once everyone has finished eating, people begin to stand up and make their way over to the bar or to go mingle with some of the other patrons. Some just move around the table to have conversations with those who weren’t sitting beside them earlier. Temari, joining the movement, makes her way over to the bar. She is waiting for her turn from the tender when she feels Shikamaru come up behind her, winding his arm around her shoulder.

“Ready?” He asks, leaning some his weight on her. He is heavy against her side. 

She doesn’t actually need another drink. She is happy to leave now. 

Temari turns in, close enough to practically be hugged between his arms.

She isn’t sure why she does it; standing in the middle of a bar, over half-a-dozen of his classmates surrounding them, but she feels the urge in that moment. It’s always him furthering the cover, always him reaching for her. 

Temari lifts up onto her toes and, softer than she should have, brings her lips to his cheek. 

It’s the closest she has ever been to him, but she knows him; knows the feeling of him beside her. 

Shikamaru is surprised, she can tell, but he does nothing except squeeze her shoulder. 

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, as though they have more interesting things to do. 

And he lets her go. They won’t touch again until they have to. She doesn’t want to touch him again. She doesn’t like it when it happens. Still, even as she walks beside him to say goodbye to his classmates, she can still feel the heat of his skin beneath her lips. 

It’s only a feeling of comfortability. It’s been days since their last argument and she has no doubt that in an hour, when they’re secured at home, she will be mad at him for something he did (or failed to do) tonight. And they’ll go to sleep in the silence that lingers after a fight (which is always better than the silence from utter lack of interest in the other). And she will sleep and he won’t and in the morning they will go their separate ways and not speak. 

See? Comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, always, for all the reviews/messages on tumblr encouraging me! and the biggest appreciation to carol and appy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> massive thank you to carol and appy

“That’s all you have?” Temari asks. 

Hinoto blinks. Yes, she means, that’s all. 

Temari sighs, watching her breath in the streetlight. It is the first day of November and they are finally receiving their first real job since coming to Kiri. It’s not a good one, but hey, she thinks, at least it is finally something. 

“It’s not well planned enough.” Shikamaru is more upset by it. There is no point in arguing, Temari believes. Hinoto isn’t hiding anything. If she knew more, she would have said. 

“It’s your job to plan it.” Hinoto repeats, hard enough to make clear she isn’t interested in pursuing his line of questioning. “You have all the information we have.”

Shikamaru steps forward. They’re in an alley behind a pizza restaurant where Shikamaru and Temari sometimes get takeout from. It’s only five pm, but it’s pitch dark out, clouds covering the stars and the pavement wet from afternoon rains. It smells like rain and cement, with the occasional whiff of pizza being made nearby.

“We,” he says, gesturing between himself and Temari standing a few feet away, “don’t have time to mark his security or his schedule. All you’ve given us is a name and a photo. We’re going in blind.”

He’s right, of course, but Temari thinks it’s futile. They want the target picked up tomorrow night and no later. There is no way they will find out all the things they need to by then. It’s only a pick-up and drop-off, a smuggle from one side of the city over to the border on the other side, easy — only, the item to be transported is a person. A defect from Konoha who’d arrived in Kiri three days ago, but had been officially missing from the Leaf (assumingly hidden away on some small island in the Water Lands) for three months, giving the Water who knows how much precious information. He could be killed, sure, but they’d rather he just disappeared. It’s best to know what information he gave if that is an option rather than just ensuring he never gives away any more.

Hinoto stares at Shikamaru, eyes narrowed. “You’ll figure it out,” she says, and with that, she turns and walks away, emerging into the light of the street and disappearing down the block. 

There is a pause. And then, wrapping his coat around himself and leaning back against the brick wall of the pizza place, Shikamaru groans. 

“Fuck.”

Temari says nothing, hands in her pockets to keep warm, as she watches him. She agrees — it’d be best with more information, especially when the target is surely being protected by Kiri guards and when the man himself is an older, highly-ranked combat officer. But they are so far away, so separate from what is happening back in their home countries, that she thinks lacking sensitive and important details may turn out to be somewhat of the norm. 

“Is this how you’re used to things?” Shikamaru asks, not looking at her. 

She swallows. “We have to go with what we have.”

“We have nothing.”

“We have our orders.”

He exhales, long, like he is waiting until he has no more oxygen in his body, before he pushes off the brick and stands up. Rolling his eyes, he turns and walks around to the front. Temari stays where she is, alone in the alley now, and listens as Shikamaru opens the front door of the restaurant to go pick up their food.

* * *

Temari went to work the next day, but Shikamaru didn’t go to class so that he could spend time following the target around. He was pretty limited in what he could find out though. He only had a few hours and no other information on this guy’s itinerary except for the hotel he was staying at. There was less security on him than either of them expected, Shikamaru says, but he really only watched the man go from one building to the next. Of the buildings the mark entered, Shikamaru was only able to get into the bank, and without more of a team, wasn’t able to stay on him for long. 

He calls the labs right before she gets off from a payphone over by the docks, and so she takes the bus to him. When she arrives, he’s a block down in a dark green car likely jacked from a nearby lot. In the backseat, she puts on a black wig and glasses that Shikamaru brought and changes into pants and a bright white sweater. She adds boots in case she has to run; but they’re not particularly good for running. Their value is their hard soles. Still, even though they’re no good in an emergency, they’re better than her heels. 

“There are two men watching him.” Shikamaru says as she gets dressed, “but from a distance. We have a space of about two hundred feet.”

“There’s no one with him now?”

Shikamaru shrugs. “He is drinking alone. He may take someone back to the hotel, but he doesn’t seem to be meeting anyone there.”

When she finishes, he drives over to the bar the target had gone to hours ago and parks nearby. 

“I found a good spot up the block near his hotel. Assuming he goes straight home.”

“It would have been easier if we knew he was looking to take someone home.”

Temari climbs over the center console and into the passenger seat. 

“We can try, if you want to go in?”

“No. If he’s there to find a woman, he already has his eye on one.” She settles in and focuses her attention on the bar entrance. “He’ll probably recognize it anyway.”

Seducing civil servants is easy. Seducing spies is not.

Shikamaru seemingly agrees and they sit in the car, away from the streetlight where they may be easily seen, and wait. He says the security on the target is on the cross street, also waiting. Luckily, strategically, there was a good parking place thirty feet from the entrance of the bar where they can keep an eye on the door and keep away from the body-men guarding him. But it is dangerous. If they could get him later, even just tomorrow night, it would be a very different scenario. 

It’s two and a half hours before the man leaves. He is alone. He’s been in the bar almost four hours. 

“Early to be leaving, isn’t it?” She comments as Shikamaru puts the car into gear. Most people don’t leave bars until later in the night. 

“Looks like he’s going to the hotel.”

“Lucky,” she intones as they pull out of the parking space. Shikamaru drives past the man, five blocks, makes a right, and then another right, and parks midway down the block at the exit of an alley, parallel to where the man will be walking. 

“Walk from back there,” he says. “The hotel is two blocks ahead of where we turned.” And then Shikamaru hands her a pistol, takes one himself, grabs a balaclava, ties his hair down at the base of his skull, and heads out, running down the alley. It’s freezing, but he has no coat. Too difficult to move in.

Temari nods, putting on her coat. She’ll look odd on the street without one. And then she waits half a minute before pocketing the gun in her coat, fixing her disguise, and slipping out of the car. She walks back up the block they’d driven down, makes a left, and then stops at the next left, leaning against the building where she can be in shadow, keeping her eyes trained down the block. 

Any minute, if Shikamaru is right, she should see a figure walking up the street. From her position, she can see the side alley halfway down the block where Shikamaru will be, waiting. She’ll time it, shoes loud on the pavement so he knows when she’s near, passing the target at the right moment. And then he’ll grab the man and take him to the waiting car at the other end of the alley. It should take less than thirty seconds before he’s in the car. It will take the men following him at least a minute and a half between realizing they lost him, getting out and approaching on foot, and then realizing what happened and getting back in their car. They may be smart enough to head straight for the border outside of the city, near the drop point, but they won’t make it in time. 

That’s the plan, if all goes smoothly. 

It’s only a few seconds waiting in the dark until Temari sees the target approaching at the other end of the block. She steps out, as though having just turned the corner, and begins walking. She takes loud steps, trying to gauge the distance and timing of her stride so that she’ll cross with him right at the entrance of the alley. She hums, looks down as though in her own head, not wanting to exude any sense of stealth. 

This is what she is used to. This is what she knows. This is what she wants with Shikamaru — not a marriage, not a domesticity. She wants a _job_. A real one. 

She isn’t sure what happens though. Maybe she has been out of the game too long (it’s been three months since she has done anything close to this, way back in Suna) or perhaps there is nothing more she could have done, as the target has more experience than her and knows all the plays in the book.

It’s a split second, where he is watching her approach, all swing of her hips and easy gait of a twenty-something walking home from dinner on a Tuesday night, no care for her surroundings at all, and then a notice that she will cross him at the entrance of an alley. Perhaps he thinks it is too coincidental, too close. Perhaps, more likely, he is expecting this, and is too jumpy, too anxious. He probably hadn’t wanted to be dropped in Kiri in the first place. She’ll think, later, that he probably was hoping to stay hidden on some island in peace for the rest of his life. He probably knows she is coming, because if he were still an officer, he would have sent her. 

It’s no matter. It’s one second, where it is going to work, and then it doesn’t. 

He expects someone to be in the alley, knows that whoever is there is more of a threat than the young woman coming towards him, and Temari watches as he stops in his tracks, hesitates, and then pulls a revolver out of his pocket and shoots. 

It’s that simple: shit, she thinks, and then she is shot. He’s turning as he does it, firing in fear, and running. It’s all done so quickly, she hardly even realizes the sound is related to _her_. She’s never been shot before. She’s been fired at, but never _hit_. She doesn’t even feel much apart the realization that the feeling in her side is from a bullet. 

It’s so fast. Too fast. Shikamaru is there before she’s even stumbled back, but all he does is toss her his balaclava with nothing more than a glance, and then he is off, gone down the block, toward the direction of the bodyguards. She takes the balaclava and instinctively presses it into her side. 

It’s really no more than a hard burn in her core, a stabbing sensation in the side of her body. It doesn’t _feel_ like her skin is punctured as much as it feels like there is just a hot poker inside and _underneath_ her skin. But it hurts more as she presses on it and that, more than anything, is what she is gritting her teeth against. 

Shikamaru has disappeared. The gunshot had been loud and there is no way the security team didn’t hear it. But she hears nothing else — no more shots. 

As quickly as she can, Temari stands and makes her way, half-running half-limping, through the alley to the car. She settles in, keys already in the ignition, and drives off. They can’t have made it too far. 

Her senses are gone though. She can hardly feel anything — she can hardly drive. It’s not pain, it’s just loss of comprehension. The lights are blurred and there is a buzzing in her ear. She slows, belatedly, at the intersection and, just as she would have hit them, Shikamaru jumps out in front of the car, palm smacking the hood to stop her. The car jerks as she slams down on the break. Oh. _That_ hurts. 

She doesn’t see much except that Shikamaru isn’t alone. He is practically dragging a man — the man, the enemy — she thinks. As they pass her window she sees Shikamaru’s pistol digging into the man’s side. She pops the trunk after a second and she hears the pistol whip of the object against what she assumes is the man’s head, and then the car shifts again as the weight changes, a fully-grown human in the trunk. 

Slowly, not thinking through much at all, Temari lets go of her stomach and reaches with her hands, bloody, she realizes, as she slips once, to grab the headrest of the passenger seat and pull herself up, over the console, and into the back seat. 

And then Shikamaru is there, suddenly, driving. She must have missed something. He wasn’t there, but now he is. And he’s speeding away. She’s being jolted, that’s why she is awake. 

“Temari,” he is saying, looking back over his shoulder. 

She groans. “Just drive.” They must be being chased. The security team must be closer than they were hoping. Even in their ideal plan, there was never any cushion to begin with. 

He doesn’t though. He glances at the road for seconds and then is back at her. She isn’t lying down. She’s just sitting in the back seat. She still hardly feels anything. She is hardly aware of anything too.

Quickly, car still speeding down side streets that require attention and short stops, Shikamaru reaches back and grabs the hem of her sweater and pulls it up. He holds it up, as he looks forward, one hand on the wheel, the other on her sweater. He stays straight. The lights are green. He looks over at her again, looks at the wound. And she looks down too. It’s just her side. Right in her left oblique, equidistant between her bottom rib and the top of her hipbone. 

“Shit,” he breathes, letting her sweater go and straightening back forward and up. “Is there an exit wound?”

They’re going so fast. They may crash. Where is the security team? Will someone be at the drop site? They can’t wait. He needs to go. Faster. It’s so fast. 

“Temari!” 

She blinks. He’s back in focus. He’s looking at her. He is sweating. But it’s so cold. She’s cold. 

“Check your back! Is there a hole? Did the bullet go through?” 

She fumbles, hands shaky as they reach behind her. Her back isn’t smooth. There is something. It hurts when she brushes her fingers. That hurts. That’s bad. 

“Yes,” she says, knowing she is saying it. 

“Okay,” Shikamaru exhales, refocuses on the road. He makes a sharp turn and it hurts. “Good. It’s not too bad. You’ll have to focus, okay? Focus. Concentrate on your breaths. In and out.” He glances back for a second. “Temari! Press it on the wound. _Focus_. Eyes open.”

She breathes. Through her nose out her mouth. That’s what she remembers. She’s been told that. She blinks and then keeps her eyes open. Breathes again. It gets more painful the more she pays attention. 

“Have you ever been shot?” He is asking.

“No.”

He huffs, makes another sharp turn. 

“Have you?”

“No.”

“Well then what the fuck are you on about?” She says it quietly, half-heartedly, but he laughs. She doesn’t expect that. She hasn’t heard him laugh in so long. 

She holds his balaclava and presses it in. She’s bleeding more than she thinks is okay, but certainly less than she has seen others bleed. But if he doesn’t think it’s too much, hopefully he’s right. 

Maybe pressing it down doesn’t matter if there is an equally bad wound on her back. 

Carefully, paying attention, moving as purposefully as she can, she takes off her coat and presses it to her back with one hand and holds his balaclava to her front with the other. 

“Did they see you?” She asks. He has no disguise. That’s why he’d had the mask. 

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” She closes her eyes and then remembers she isn’t supposed to do that.

More time passes. She slows her breathing. It hurts more now. 

“Gauze.” She says. Softly.

“What?”

“In the car.”

Shikamaru glances back. “You’re right. Next time.” Even though it’s not their car. 

“Always right.”

He laughs again. “Maybe you are.”

Temari blinks and then works to keep her eyes open. They’re driving so fast. 

“I’m sorry.” She says. 

There is a pause. He keeps looking ahead. And then: I know. Me too.

* * *

“Shit,” she is saying — thinks she is saying, she’s mostly in and out of consciousness now. “We put the morphine in the storage room. Let’s go downstairs.”

“It’s okay,” Shikamaru is saying, softly, hands on her ribcage, practically lifting her up each step. “The bedroom.”

“Stupid.”

“Yes,” He grunts, pulls her up another step. “We’ll move it up there from now on.”

It hurts too much to bend, really, so she has an arm around his shoulders and one gripping the railing, which doesn’t seem to mean much. She isn’t sure if she is even carrying any of her own weight, if the bannister beneath her hand is only touching her or is actually in her grip. 

“We should sleep on the first floor.” 

“Okay.” He says. It sounds like he’s not really paying attention to her. But he always pays attention to her. He acts like he isn’t, but he always is. Right? Is he? How long has it been? What time is it?

It’s not much more and then they’re on the second floor and Shikamaru is pushing open the door to the bedroom and then in the bathroom, bending down, laying her, carefully, against the floor. It’s not ideal. It’s not too big, especially when there is a body on the floor. But he has enough room to kneel beside her, which is what he does, turning on the bath and letting the hot water run. She can feel the steam. 

And then she opens her eyes and he’s not there. There is too much steam. She blinks. And then he is back. Maybe he was always there. She’s too disoriented. There is no steam. She’s cold. 

She watches, not saying anything, as Shikamaru starts to pull up her sweater. It hurts, but not nearly as much as a moment later when he pushes the tips of his fingers underneath her bandage and pulls it back. Temari makes a noise and reaches out wildly, making contact with one hand against the cabinet under the sink and the other against his chest. She grabs his shirt and tugs as hard as she can, balling her hand into a fist. Ignoring her, Shikamaru holds one hand to her hip and carefully lifts her on her side to pull at the bandage on her back. She tugs harder at his shirt. “Stop!” But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at her. She wishes he were the one who got shot. Why was she walking down the street? He could have done that job! She feels her nails in her own palm through the fabric of his shirt. And then he eases her back down. 

He says nothing. She sees a syringe and he is looking at it closely. Faster, she wants to say, but she doesn’t. He’s been moving so fast. With one hand holding the needle, he uses his other to grab her wrist and pull her grip off his shirt. 

She doesn’t feel the prick of the needle, but she assumes it happens because the next thing she sees is him cutting her sweater right down her front from the bottom all the way to her collar. 

“I liked that,” she says. 

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I make the money.”

“You do.”

Temari closes her eyes again. 

“It’s pretty clean,” Shikamaru keeps talking. “I checked his gun. They don’t think the bullet shattered.”

She cracks an eye open, refocuses. “They?”

“At the drop. They gave the gauze. The bandage.”

She closes her eyes again, but Shikamaru grabs her chin and shakes her. 

“You should call Hinoto.”

“I already did.” He says, leaning over her face now, holding her head, trying to keep her eyes on his. “You were there, remember? And the man at the drop, we talked to him, right, Temari?”

She breaths. She doesn’t remember. “But you’re here.”

Shikamaru lifts her eyelids, looks at her eyes. And then he sits back on his heels and readjusts, his focus back on her stomach. 

“You’ll be fine. We don’t need help for this. Keep your eyes on me.”

She tries to.

“You’re a desk boy.” Her mouth is dry. Her tongue feels like it weights ten pounds. It’s hard to talk. “I’ve seen your papers. Your puzzles.”

Shikamaru huffs. But he is smiling. 

“The front is worse,” he says.“I’m going to start there.”

“Supposed to be the other way around?” She asks, but he doesn’t respond. 

She isn’t holding anything anymore. Why? She reaches up and grabs his shoulder this time. Then Shikamaru starts cutting away the bandage and that hurts the most.She feels her nails in his skin. She fastens herself onto him hoping it will make him stop, but it doesn’t.

“It hurts, Shikamaru!” She is making too much noise. She needs to grit against it. “It hurts!”

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just breathe.”

She has the painkiller though, doesn’t she? Of course she does. He wouldn’t have started if it hadn’t kicked in. How long has it been? 

Temari blinks, shakes her head, looks away from him as he peels the bandage away. It burns. She’s on fire. _Is_ she feeling anything?

And then Shikamaru is holding another needle. A sewing one. 

“They’re letting you do this with a sewing kit!?”

Temari breathes. Tries to stop. She isn’t feeling anything. She isn’t. She lets go of his shoulder. 

“Better than nothing,” he grunts, focusing on the eye of it as he pushes the thread through. “But I will call Hinoto as soon as you’re done. I’d like if you had some blood. And some better equipment.”

“And a better doctor.”

He laughs. “And a better doctor.” But he isn’t happy. He isn’t enjoying her joke. His lips are tight, his gaze hard. Then he leans up and brushes some hair away from her face. Oh. Her glasses. Her disguise. She’s lost them. Where are they? “How does it feel now?” He asks. 

“Feel?” 

She doesn’t understand, but he nods, like he understands something, and he moves back, leaning down into her torso, face only inches from her stomach. 

“You’re being so nice to me.”

She lifts her head again. It’s so heavy. Everything is so heavy. And he is so low, down on her hip, basically, one hand against her skin, holding her down, the other working. She doesn’t feel any of it. His hair is messy. Some of it is out of the tie and in his eyes. He should stop and fix that. 

“You’re my wife,” he says. She watches him say it. He is too focused on his task to pay her any attention though. The last time he said something like that, it was mean. He’s mean, isn’t he?

She can’t feel anything. She doesn’t even feel the pressure of his weight pinning her down even though she is sure he is pushing on her. Temari closes her eyes again, lets her head fall back softly against the tile. She pictures him over her. He must be heavy. 

He’s silent. Has it been a long time? 

“Why?” She asks. “Could have been a mistake.”

She hears Shikamaru shift his position. 

She means the shooter. The target. The defect. Him. He didn’t have enough proof to shoot her. She still could have been a civilian.

Shikamaru seems to understand what she is asking. “He was antsy,” he says. “He was scared.” Shikamaru sighs. “He was a little drunk. He was well trained and with no loyalty. No honor.”

Temari opens her eyes again, takes in the ceiling. This room has the brightest lighting. She remembers that. She should take a bath. That sounds nice. She looks down. There are wet towels already on the floor. A little bloody. She doesn’t remember that. 

“He gets to go home.” She feels her articulation slipping. She doesn’t know what she is saying. “He gets to go back.” She pictures the man. She pictures him pulling out his revolver. It was shiny. “You gave him back, right?”

“Yes, Temari,” he says, still looking at her wound. “You were with me.”

Her head lolls to the side and she looks at the wall. It’s so white in here. Even the towels, those above her hanging from the hook, those used for the shower, are white. The ones on the floor, with just some splotches of red, are white.

“I’m so jealous.” She says. 

The longest she’s ever been away from Suna was six months. It hasn’t even been a full four months here. But that was different. She knew she was going home then. This— this is different. This feels different. 

“I didn’t know homesickness could feel like this,” she says. “I didn’t know it could be physical.”

She isn’t sure what she is saying or, at first, if she is even saying it aloud. She doesn’t want to. She isn’t supposed to. The tiles are so white. She is so hot. So sterile. Sick, she thinks. So unhappy. 

She doesn’t know how long it has been. Has she said more? Has he? Because in so many ways it feels like it has only been seconds, but suddenly Shikamaru is rolling her over, adjusting her so she is lying on her front and he still has room to kneel beside her. And then he is cutting away her sweater again, from the back this time and is removing the temporary bandage he’d put there. She sees it, cheek pressed against the tile, as he tosses the bandage, the dark red of old blood the only color in her line of sight. 

She is so hot. Her eyelids flutter. 

“Awake.” She hears him instruct, but it sounds like it’s from a distance. She looks back over her shoulder. He is threading a needle. Didn’t he just do that?

It hurts more on her stomach. She feels like she might be sick. 

But she is too incoherent. She wants to speak, but she can feel her tongue lagging in her mouth. He gave her too much. She should be a little numbed, not high. 

“You know,” he is saying, voice somewhere behind her, “the night before I left, I went and slept with my mom.” He doesn’t sound angry, even though he should because of the things she said before, the things she spoke of but didn’t mean to. “In bed with her. My dad, he….” She hears him move. “He died when I was a teenager.”

“You are a teenager.”

“Not quite,” he says. “Though I know you like to think of me as one.” 

She doesn’t see, but suddenly he has leaned up and his hand is at her forehead, feeling her temperature, before moving back to his task. 

“I crawled into bed with her. She must have known why, must have known where I was going and what I was going to do, even though I couldn’t tell her, even though she said nothing to me. I think she’d like you, Temari. She likes to yell at me too.” He pauses, sighs, sad now. “I hadn’t slept in that bed since I was a kid.”

Temari turns her head to the other side. He’s telling her this to even the playing field, she understands. She said something, so he is saying something. It’s the first thing he has ever said. They aren’t supposed to talk about this. Even under painkillers, she knows that, she understands it. 

She thinks about saying something about Gaara. About how, before dawn the morning they left, she went to see her brothers. If she closes her eyes now, she can still picture it. Kankuro was asleep in his basement apartment, and she watched him through his window. It’ll be months before he realizes she isn’t coming back, months before he inquires about it and they tell him she is still on assignment. And then she went to Gaara, but he woke up, and he hugged her for the first time in his life. And how his arms felt, his heart felt, against her; how he smelled like sand and sunshine. And how she didn’t cry until she got back to her apartment and then, all packed and ready, she laid down on her kitchen floor and sobbed until the sun came up. 

She squeezes her eyes shut even harder. She imagines how, all those months ago, Shikamaru slept in his mother’s bed, and then, only a day or so later, he met her. She remembers how young he looked. How young he must be now; how vulnerable. 

And that passes quickly too, because soon he is rolling her over again, reaching up to pull what remains of her sweater — just sleeves — off her arms. Then he is reaching over and opening her eyes, pulling her lids back again, checking her pupils. She looks at him. His eyes are always so dark. Would she even be able to tell if his pupils were dilated? 

Apparently satisfied, Shikamaru holds her shoulder and pulls her up. She doesn’t feel much, but then she is sitting, and turning, and then she is leaned against the cabinet. 

“We should use localized.” She says. 

“No. General, probably. Sorry.” He is gone now and she hears it from the other room. But then he is back and he is slipping her arms through her pajama top. Good thing it buttons down. Good thing this is easy. 

“Tell her. Tell them.”

“I will,” he assures, and then he is on his feet and slipping his arms beneath her to scoop her up. “I have a lot to tell her.”

Temari falls against his shoulder. “You’re stronger than you look.”

Shikamaru huffs. “You said that already.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t remember. “I did?”

It’s only a few feet, and then he is settling her on the bed. 

“You need to go to sleep.” He says, adjusting her so her head is back on the pillows. “You can close your eyes now.”

Temari does. Oh, that feels nice. “I’ll feel better in the morning.”

Somewhere above her, Shikamaru says, “no, you probably won’t.” And then he says something else, but she doesn’t remember anything after that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the encouragement!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to carol and appy for all the review!

The week passes slowly. She sleeps through most of the first few days, but she wakes up in pain once or twice, at which point she hobbles downstairs to eat a spoonful of anything before she can take her medication. Most of the time though, she is lucky and Shikamaru wakes her up before the pain does and gives her some pills, and after that, she passes right out again. 

He is sleeping on the living room couch now because they haven’t set up the guest room yet, which makes it easier for her to rest and for him to move about, but more difficult when it comes to things that require much movement. She’s capable of changing her own bandages though, so the rest is pretty minimal. He calls her out of work with the flu and then, after taking one more day of classes off, he goes back to his usual schedule. He has time each day to stop by though. Nice schedules, those students. 

Everything, really, is fine by the third day, Friday, when she manages to stay awake for the afternoon and can sit downstairs and watch tv. That makes the days much easier, though she is petitioning for a tv in the bedroom. 

That evening, after meeting with Hinoto, Shikamaru comes back with more supplies and the number of a doctor. Later that night, the doctor stops by. She holds her shirt up to her chest in the kitchen as the doctor peels off the bandage she’s wrapped all the way around her waist. His hands are cold from outside and it makes her flinch back. 

Shikamaru leans back against the counter and watches as the doctor observes his work. 

“Pretty good,” the doctor says. “I brought you surgical thread too, for next time.” 

Shikamaru tilts his head to the side, arms crossed over his chest. “There shouldn’t be a next time.”

“Optimistic.” Temari mutters. 

“Of course, of course,” the doctor says. “Any time there is anything like this or worse, I’m your first call.” He puts a new bandage on her. “But you’ve done good here. She’ll heal in no time. You did everything right.”

That doesn’t seem to alleviate Shikamaru too much, but he shares a drink with the doctor anyway once Temari goes back upstairs. She wonders what they’re talking about. She hopes, though she knows otherwise, that once he leaves this house, she will never see the doctor again. 

She takes some more pills and then passes out in bed.

* * *

Things eventually go back to normal. Toward the end of the next week, she is able to return from work, albeit moving slowly. 

“Bad bout?” Haku asks.

Temari nods, leaning back in her chair, elbows on the rest. She’s still on pretty serious medication, but she is able to focus enough to work, so she insisted she return. “Worst I’ve ever had.”

Ruka, whose desk is on the other side of their station, has pulled up a chair. “Do you get sick often?”

She shrugs. “I was meaning to get the vaccination, I just kept forgetting! It’s been so busy here.”

“Oh,” Haku writes it down. “I should go do that.”

Ruka leans forward, close to Temari. “Anyway. So, when I stopped by last week,” Ruka says. “Well. Let’s talk about your husband.”

Huh. “You came by last week?”

Ruka frowns. “Uh, yeah. Let’s see… it was on Wednesday? I called and you didn’t answer, so I went over during lunch to bring you some soup. And I met your husband. He didn’t tell you?”

Temari licks her lips. “I’m sure he did. I don’t remember anything. I was on so many antivirals and was so out of it. There have been dozens of things he’s said that I don’t remember. Allegedly. At least, that’s what he keeps telling me.” She’s not lying. She can practically hear him saying _I told you about this, Temari_. 

“God that sounds awful! He said your fever was, like, 103, 104.”

“Hm,” Temari sighs. “I was out of it for days.”

Ruka waves her hand, “No, no. That’s not what I mean. Let’s _talk_ about your husband.”

She frowns, scoots higher in her chair. “What about him?”

“He’s so cool!” Ruka grins. “He invited me in for coffee. He was sleeping on the couch because you were sick, right? And I woke him up with the doorbell, so he was in his pajamas and his hair was all mussed, but he still invited me in and made me coffee as he folded all the sheets and told me all about you getting sick and how annoying it was, but you could tell, like, he wasn’t annoyed at all. He was actually super caring. And, you know, _beautiful_.”

“Oh.” Temari says. It’s not what she expected. “Um, thank you?” She laughs, rolling her eyes. “I mean, he’s okay, I guess. Very much like him to be asleep in the middle of the day though.”

“Let me warn you,” Haku interjects, “she has been talking about him, and about your house, since that day.”

Ruka waves him off, focusing on Temari. “I’m so jealous. You guys seem so happy.”

Temari smiles and shakes her head. “Okay, get back to work. Stop spreading rumors.” She turns her chair back to her desk. “If they think I’m too happy, you know they’ll find some way to bring me down. They’re already unhappy with me missing so many days. I don’t need any more work.”

“Good call.” Haku mutters, already back to writing whatever he had begun before Ruka came over. 

And so things go back to normal. And they _are_ normal. Shikamaru is back to sleeping upstairs. No one seems to suspect she is nursing any kind of real injury. And at home they’re bickering less, but it’s mostly because he stays out of her way. She is upset they couldn’t start doing more actual work — she was hoping, before this, that after they returned the defect back to Konoha, they would get more, but now, they won’t have anything for at least two months, possibly longer. And so every day, slowly, things return back to usual, back to the endless and perfunctory ins and outs of her life. 

* * *

One morning, with no warning or time for preparation, Kahyo poses a question they should have known was coming. But they didn’t. They were too stupid, too caught up in the other identifiers and public displays of marriage, to think of it.

Kahyo and her husband are over for breakfast after the first big snowstorm when she, out of the blue, says: so, I know you two eloped, but Temari, did you wear a wedding dress?

Temari, standing to collect their finished plates from around the dining table, is completely caught off guard. They’d been discussing a controversial new movie that had absolutely nothing to do with romance or anything that would clearly lead to that line of questioning. Temari is mostly tuned out and isn’t paying much attention anyway when the question comes, and even less attention to her words as she says: Yes.

It’s automatic and she immediately bites her tongue as though she could belatedly stop herself. Shikamaru’s eyes widen at her response, but he isn’t looking at her. Temari quickly makes her way to the kitchen holding their plates. 

Why did she say that? She doesn’t have any sort of dress here. She has nothing even remotely similar that she could swing into a wedding dress.

She’s puts the plates on the counter and is stacking them when Kahyo walks in, carrying the rest of the dishes and a few glasses. Temari smiles. She’d been hoping Shikamaru would move the conversation elsewhere, but here Kahyo is, following up.

“Do you have any photos?” She asks.

“Photos?”

Temari reaches for the plates. 

“Of the wedding. I’d love to see them.”

Temari puts the plates, stacked, in the sink. “Of course,” she says, looking down. “They’re just not unpacked.” She pauses, looks up, rests her hip on the lip of the counter. “We’ve gotten so lazy,” she sighs.

Kahyo laughs. “Oh I remember that. Once you’ve unpacked all the essentials, you forget about everything else.” She reaches into the sink to start washing and Temari bats her hands away. 

“Please. Stop. Shikamaru will do it when you guys leave.”

“Well if he’s the one doing it.” Kahyo puts a hand on Temari’s arm and squeezes. She really is so kind. Temari ’s glad she has a neighbor like this woman. She is perfectly generous and trusting and maintained a good friendship while never prying. They easily could have moved in to one of those streets that has the classic old woman who finds a full-time occupation of knowing exactly what is happening in the neighborhood. 

With her arm around Temari, they walk back into the dining room where clearly the other two have heard everything, because Shikamaru is giving her a look that says _what the fuck_?

* * *

“What do we do about that?” She asks a few hours later, long after the dishes are done, she has finished cleaning up, and Shikamaru is doing crosswords over on the couch. 

He leans his head back, clearly irritated at both her promise of the photographs and the fact that she is interrupting him right now. “We’ll have to take them.”

Temari is in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips. “And how to do you suppose we do that? In case you haven’t noticed, it’s snowing outside.” She sighs, waves a hand vaguely in the air. “I don’t know how this never occurred to either of us.” They’re married, strictly speaking, even if they never actually said any words or had any ceremony… there is a certificate registered with the city, which is all one really needs. It’s all a marriage technically is. “How stupid.” She bites her lip. “People always expect wedding photos.”

Shikamaru has closed his eyes. “You could have said we were just regularly dressed and in a courtroom. That’s easy enough. No family, no pictures.”

“Well.”

The wedding itself — this idea that they’re _married_ — has always been so unreal to them, so acutely removed from the way she understands their marriage… it’s a story, a cover, something they were assigned and something to display. The wedding aspect of it is a part she never thinks about, something she never really considers except in reciting the basic story of elopement to those who ask. They have the certificate. They wear rings in public. It never occurred to her that there was more to do.

He exhales, long, and then opens his eyes. “Okay. I’ll ask.”

* * *

He comes home late from meeting with Hinoto. 

Temari is standing in front of the mirror when he comes in, applying the cream to her wound. It’s only been a few weeks, but it looks much better. The sutures are long gone and, in another few months, it may be nothing more than a flat, white scar. Now, it’s bright pink, but it’s not evidently a bullet wound to those who don’t know to look for one. And her back appears much better. That side seems almost healed. 

“She’s set something up,” he says, as he walks in, sitting on the foot of the bed to take off his shoes. 

“The back looks good,” Temari says, turning around. 

He glances up. “She was asking how bad it was.”

“She cares?” Temari lets her shirt fall.

Shikamaru shrugs and then goes back to untying his boots. “I think, in her own way she does. Or she just wants you for another job.”

Temari walks over to her side of the bed. “So?”

“So they have people for this. They have a system. It happens all time, apparently.”

“Then why not take them in Suna? That’d’ve been much easier. Safer.”

Shikamaru rubs his eyes. Takes off his sweater. “Nothing with them is easy.”

Temari swallows, thinks it over. He sounds disdainful. Sounds like he is different from them, like he is _other_ , but he’s not. He’s part of _them_. She wants to say more, but she stops herself. He’s tired. And there is no doubt that her desire to clarify his language, to make his identity more categorical, will result in a fight, with both of them remembering why they resent the other, so she stays silent. 

“Next Thursday.” He says after a moment. “When you finish work. We’ll go over.”

* * *

They’re both wearing disguises when they enter the emporium on Thursday evening. It’s bitterly cold out and Temari is exhausted. Her interest in this right now is completely non-existent — though at no time, she thinks, would she actually _want_ to do this. 

She figures it’ll be quick though. Dress up, pose, take a quick photograph, and then go home. Easy. 

The warehouse is on the other side of Kiri in a neighborhood she’s never even been near, closer to the eastern shore. It’s far from them, far from the university. The entire neighborhood is industrial. Now, past six pm, it’s the only building with lights coming through the high windows. 

She and Shikamaru ring a bell and are buzzed in, but there is no one in the front room and no signs directing them anywhere else, only a desk and some waiting chairs. They stop there, leave their disguises on the front desk, and then after a moment, Shikamaru gestures that they keep walking. They go through another door and into a massive room, housing multiple little sets all around it. Straight ahead sits Hinoto at a table and with her are two others. Hinoto has a cup of tea between her hands. She’s obviously been there for some time. 

“You’re here?” Temari asks. She hasn’t seen the other woman since Hinoto walked out of that rain-soaked alley weeks ago.

She’s not mad at Hinoto. She doesn’t blame Hinoto for getting shot, not like Shikamaru does, but she certainly isn’t happy with the woman.

One of the other two people, the one with their back to Temari, turns around and smiles. 

“Temari,” Hinoto says, nodding, then looks to Temari’s right. “Shikamaru. Please meet Tenten and Neji.” 

The girl who had turned stands and comes over, extending her hand. Temari swallows. She knows right away what this is. She hadn’t been expecting it. 

She takes the girl’s hand, unsure, even though the girl is all smiles and youthful confidence. 

“I’m so happy to meet you.” Tenten says as she shakes Shikamaru’s hand next. Behind her is the other one — Neji — who offers a hand, but doesn’t say anything. Temari stares at him as he moves onto Shikamaru. His palm is calloused and his eyes cold. Okay, Temari thinks, he seems pretty intense. 

Tenten rocks back on her heels. “We run this family photography business,” she says, hands on her hips. She is tiny. “This is our workshop.”

Temari can certainly tell. There are dozens of sets and backdrops around her. Some are fully drawn out — 3D rooms — and some are just canvases. It’s huge. A whole warehouse of them. 

“So you’re going to take wedding photos?”

“We do tons of fake weddings,” Tenten says, the corner of her lips turned up. 

Temari blinks. Shikamaru hasn’t said anything. She has absolutely no idea what is going through his head. Hinoto, still sitting with her tea, looks bored, and Neji is completely unreadable. 

The pause goes on for a moment too long, until it is awkward, and then Tenten continues, gesturing with her hands. 

“Shikamaru, why don’t you go find a suit,” she shuffles him off to the left. “And let’s you and I,” she is talking to Temari, but has already turned and is walking off somewhere, “go find you a dress.”

Good. Right down to business. That’s what Temari likes. Shikamaru likes to take his time with things, usually, but she assumes he too wants to get this over with in how quickly he walks away.

Warily, not looking back to where Shikamaru has gone off, she follows Tenten. She’s led in silence past some more sets and then, squished between massive canvas backdrops, Tenten opens a door. They have costumes here, heaps and heaps of clothing and colors and fabrics. Temari has never seen anything like it. In front of her is an array of costumes from a variety of historical eras, but there are hundreds, rows and rows going to her right and left, too far to see. Tenten takes her further down one aisle until she is in a corner that houses, clearly, wedding dresses. 

“Wow,” Temari inhales. “You do this a lot.”

Tenten laughs. “Real people actually need this. I wasn’t lying when I said we do tons. I photograph at least two dozen ‘staged marriages’ — that’s what we call them — a year.”

“Hm.” Temari bites her tongue, frowning as she turns to look at all the dresses before her. She doesn’t like Tenten’s use of _real people_ , but she doesn’t disagree with the sentiment much either. 

There are so many dresses, so tightly packed, Temari has to pull them out to see anything. 

“What about this?”

Tenten’s optioning a silk dress with thin straps and a matching sash.

“I like the simplicity,” Temari says. “And it’s beautiful. But maybe long-sleeved?”

Everything Temari is seeing seems to be predominately laced or with lots of frills, but as soon as Tenten puts back her first dress, she already is reaching for a second one. This is whiter, sleeves that would go past her elbow, and a high collar. It seems to be tighter on top, and while it does go out at the waist, it doesn’t seem to quite flow out as much as it just isn’t tight all the way down. 

“It’s a little stiff,” Tenten says. “Doesn’t lend itself to dancing, but you can walk fine and all that.”

Temari exhales. She’s played dress up before. She does it everyday. She understands what Temari Nara might wear to her wedding. 

“No that’s… it’ll do.”

She takes the dress and Tenten gestures her to a nearby dressing room, which is mostly just a small area sectioned off by a curtain. 

Temari walks in, unsure, closing the curtain behind her. She really doesn’t want to do this right now. She hasn’t even taken off her coat and her feet are beginning to hurt. 

“Did you ever think you would get married?”

Temari pauses in unbuttoning her shirt. She is so taken aback by the question, she doesn’t even think to not answer it, even though she probably shouldn’t. 

“I don’t know,” she responds. Then she swallows. Why is Tenten asking this? Isn’t it something she’s been told not to talk about? Temari pulls her shirt out of where it was tucked into her skirt and thinks about it. “No,” she says, more honestly. “I guess not.”

Tenten doesn’t say anything, but Temari can hear her walking away. Temari finishes taking off her clothes and then begins working her way into the dress. 

“Here,” Tenten says upon her return, pulling the curtain slightly aside. “Wear these.”

Temari takes the shoes with one hand and then carefully places them on the cement floor.

“You know my size?”

“I’ve been doing this a long time.”

There is a pause. “Did you like photography?” Maybe it’s because of the curtain separating them, but Temari feels more confident than she should when she asks it, she feels like maybe Tenten is waiting for something, or like this sort of breach is expected. 

There is a short laugh. “Can’t fucking stand it. Here.” As Temari steps out, Tenten goes to zip her up and button the two buttons at the top of the collar. It is tight, not choking her in any real way, but she _feels_ choked by it. “I’ve never been one for dressing up.”

Temari smiles at that. 

Maybe Temari ’s lucky, then, having a job she doesn’t hate. She doesn’t feel lucky though. 

Tenten turns, holds her shoulders, even though she’s shorter, and evaluates Temari. She picks pearl earrings and a pearl barrette. Temari came from work, so at least her hair is mostly done, but Tenten quickly finagles it into a prettier, low bun. She even chooses a lipstick, a darker red than Temari likes to wear, and hands it over.

And then with a quick squeeze to her upper arm, Tenten gestures her back out into the middle of the warehouse. 

It’s a job, Temari reminds herself as she walks, fabric tight against her ribcage, there is no need to make this more awkward than it already surely will be. 

When they enter, Shikamaru has clearly been done with his mini-makeover for quite a while. He’s sitting on a couch, legs splayed wide, seemingly in some deep discussion with Neji. Temari frowns. Shikamaru so rarely gets into serious conversation with anyone. He is even holding a tumbler of what looks like whiskey between his fingers, light, as though he might drop it at any second. Apart from the clean cut of his black suit — he’s looking better than she’s ever seen him — he displays no markers of _groom_. 

“Ready?” Tenten asks.

Shikamaru is staring at her. He looks surprised. She supposes he’s never actually seen her dress-up either. Or maybe, more likely, he’s looking at her and wishing he was really seeing someone else dressed to marry him. Or to take a staged photograph as some signifier of this arranged-marriage. It’s only a second, and then he glances at Neji and, after some exchange that she doesn’t understand, he leans forward, places his glass on the floor, and stands. He rubs a hand against the back of his neck. 

“Good,” Tenten is saying. “Let’s do the courtroom.” And she gestures them to a set, filled, extraordinarily, with real seats and a real-looking bench. 

God, Temari swallows. She has absolutely no will to do this. None whatsoever. It would have been so much better, so much easier, if they’d done this earlier. If they’d done this before they left Suna, long before she knew him at all. 

“Okay,” Tenten says, placing them at the edge of the courtroom. “I thought we’d get one of that movie kiss.” She gestures with her hands. “You know, leaning back, the whole thing. People do this one all the time.”

Shikamaru coughs — great — but then easily smooths out his collar and rests his hand against her lower back like he has a dozen times before. He is careful to avoid her left side. 

“Oh shit,” Tenten straightens, looks around. “I forgot flowers.”

“Do I really need them? No one to throw them to at an elopement.”

“Witnesses,” Hinoto unhelpfully adds, speaking for the first time in over half an hour, but Tenten waves her off.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Okay.” She walks closer, reaches for Temari’s shoulder and adjusts her so she is facing Shikamaru, and then she raises his hand higher up on Temari’s back. Another pause, another evaluation, and then she finishes with Temari, throwing Temari’s left arm round Shikamaru’s neck and placing her right hand flat against his chest. Tenten observes, bites her lower lip in thought, reaches to Temari’s mouth to fix the lipstick with her thumb, and then steps back. “That’s perfect.” 

Temari holds her breath. They are very close. She can smell his soap — he likes to use bars of soap instead of a bottle and she can’t understand why — and feel his breath on her face. 

Tenten is already back and looking at them through the camera, posed nicely on a tripod, when she narrows her eyes and glances behind her. “Wait, Neji,” she says. “You should probably take it.”

Neji looks reluctant, but he doesn’t say anything, standing from the chair he was sitting on with an even and uninterested gait. He’s in blue jeans and a sweater and he has to hand his drink to Tenten to adjust something on the camera. 

“Okay,” Tenten says, still directing even though she’s given away her camera-rights. “Now lean back as you kiss. Find the angle and don’t move.” 

Shikamaru leans in first, pushing her back so that she too is leaning, placing her weight in his hand, pulling him lower with the arm around his neck. 

“Okay?” He asks, quietly. 

Temari exhales, but he is too close to really focus into her sight. He means physically. He’s asking about her pain. “Some.” Nothing she can’t handle. 

And then they’re kissing. It’s not continuous, just a hard press of lips, awkwardly frozen, inhaling and exhaling through their noses. It doesn’t feel like much. There is absolutely nothing overly intimate or different about it. She can hear the camera clicking.

“Maybe an inch lower, no, one more.”

Her back hurts, her eyes are closed, Shikamaru’s heart is pounding against her hand, and she can feel the strain in his grip in trying to hold her up while holding still. 

And then they’re done. It’s all over, just like that. He straightens and pulls away, forcing her arm around his neck to drop.

“That was great,” Tenten is saying. Out of the corner of her eye, Temari sees Shikamaru wipe the lipstick from his mouth. “Should we have one more?”

“We really wouldn’t have had a photographer,” Temari says, fingers jittery, already desperate to pull the barrette from her hair, “if it was just the two of us.”

But Hinoto has stood now and is coming toward them. “One of them together. Younger.” 

No — this has been enough. They’re not here to model family portraits. Having no other family is a trait they’ve already told others about.

“Were you together in college?” Tenten frowns, but she isn’t looking at them and doesn’t really seem to be asking them anything. “Do we still have the dorm bed in the barracks?” 

“If I dress it,” Neji answers. Temari hasn’t actually heard him speak yet. His voice is very deep. He really seems scary. Shouldn’t he be more personable in this line of work? Shikamaru, to others, is mostly engaging. Ruka was certainly charmed by him. 

Shikamaru, without a word, starts tugging on his tie. 

Um. “You have nothing to say about this?”

He raises his eyebrows and looks over at her. “You’re the one who wanted more stuff in our house.”

Temari huffs. This is _such_ an inopportune moment to bring that up! But the next thing she knows, Neji is gone and Tenten is pulling her back into the mini-costume-shop-thing and throwing her once more into the curtained-off area that serves as a changing room. 

While she struggles with the back of the dress, Tenten is already tossing new clothes over the top of the curtain stand. 

“He seems nice,” Tenten says, quietly. 

Temari sighs as she slips out of the dress, stepping out of the neck, careful to hand it back up before reaching for the other clothes. What Tenten means, she thinks, is not that he is a good man, but that it could be worse. Maybe Neji was worse. Maybe not. 

She’s been given a mini-skirt — much shorter than anything she would wear out as Mrs. Nara — and a worn sweatshirt from the university. She puts on a pair of white sneakers as Tenten wipes off her makeup and, with surprising efficiency, takes out her hair and then puts it back up in a high ponytail. 

“Here,” Tenten does say before they go back. The hands Temari a box. “Take the wedding dress you wore.”

Temari frowns. “I don’t plan on wearing it again.”

Tenten shrugs. “People like to keep them. Your children will want to see it eventually.”

Hesitant, and annoyed at the prospect, Temari doesn’t argue. She takes the box and sets it down near where her own clothes sit in the changing room.

When she walks out a minute later, Shikamaru, in jeans and a gray tee shirt that is fraying at the edges, is fiddling with a cigarette in his hand. She can see him eye her, from her shoes all the way up, and then half-laugh in surprise. 

“You look like you’re sixteen.”

“Please.” She swats a hand against his upper arm as she passes him on her way to where Neji and Hinoto are standing over the camera, further into the room, past the courtroom setup. “You wish you had a girl this hot at sixteen.” 

Shikamaru rolls his eyes and follows along with her.

“We met my first year in college,” he says as they come up to the set. 

“Good story?” Tenten asks, already in the little room, moving some props around. 

“Blind date.” Hinoto supplies, still looking at something on the camera that Neji is showing her. “Not too much to say.”

“That’s easier,” Tenten comments, but she doesn’t say the story that it is easier in comparison to.

It’s a dorm room this time, complete with one of those small beds and a thin mattress. They have it pressed against the wall with a dresser on one end. 

“From here you only get half the dresser and lose maybe half a foot on the bed.” Neji tells her and it stops Tenten from hanging a poster on the other side of the bed, as she is about to do. 

Then, as last time, she sets them up in the shot. They’re posed so that they’re sitting back on the bed, in the middle of it, against the wall. Shikamaru has his legs crossed before him and Temari, tucked into his side like a college girl would be, has one leg under her and the other thrown out over his lap. 

“I can’t believe you have all this stuff,” Temari observes, genuinely amazed. 

Neji straightens from bending down to the camera. “It’s a surprisingly successful business,” he says. “She makes much more money than I do.”

Shikamaru drops one hand against her leg, on the outside of her thigh, holding her leg over his own. It’s certainly not the first time he has touched her skin, even on her thigh, but it’s not often. His hand is always so warm, so big and rough (though she has no idea why it would be — all he ever does is sit in a classroom). His other hand goes to holding his unlit cigarette between his lips, as though he is only taking a momentary drag. He looks comfortable with it. He looks good, easy, with it between his lips. 

“You smoke?” 

He glances at her. “Not anymore.”

“Here,” Tenten says, stepping up. “For you.” She hands Temari a text book. Physics. “Read this. Look down, like you’re studying.”

Perhaps Hinoto told her about Temari’s job? Or maybe Tenten and Neji have simply been told more about her and Shikamaru than they had about them. 

“I’m impressed, Tenten,” Hinoto says, arms crossed over her chest as she stands beside Neji. “These are good. You’ve gotten much better.”

The camera begins to click. 

“Years of practice,” Tenten says, a little proud, even if she hates taking photographs. 

It’s only a few shots this time. No adjustments. And then they’re scooting off the bed. 

“That’s all, right?” Temari asks, tugging down her skirt from where it slid up. “We’re done?”

“For now,” Tenten shrugs. “Come back when one of you gets a haircut or something.”

Back in the dressing room, it feels better to put her own clothes back on, even if they’re clothes she chose as Temari Nara and not actually things she would have picked on her own if she was still at the academy in Suna. Still, it feels good to be putting her hair in her own ties and fastening her own buckle and slipping on her own shoes. 

Temari is fully dressed, hanging up the clothes she’d just worn on a hook on the wall, when she hears someone approach. There is a plastic lawn chair directly next to her changing room and she hears it squeak against the cement floor as someone sits in it. 

“You know,” Tenten say, kindly, “you can come talk to me.” Temari pauses midway through hanging the mini-skirt. “I can always help.”

“Oh.” She isn’t sure what to say. “That’s —”

“We’ve been together since we were eighteen,” Tenten says, closer to the curtain than before. Temari exhales; finishes hanging up the skirt. “I know what it’s like.”

How? Temari thinks. Tenten seems happy. Like she has no idea what it’s like to be unhappy. 

“I don’t mean to imply you’re not alone or anything,” Tenten continues when it’s clear Temari isn’t going to respond. 

Temari takes a breath and opens the curtain, coat already buttoned.

Tenten, sitting in the plastic chair, shakes her head. “I mean,” she explains, “…you are.” She swallows, looks down, and then back up at Temari.

Maybe, after all this time, since Tenten turned eighteen and came to this country, she hasn’t met anyone else either. Or maybe she has and someone, once, gave her the same speech. Or, more likely, she met someone and she wished, back then, scared and unsure, that they had given her something, so she is trying to give that something to Temari. 

“That’s part of it, right?” Tenten says, with a small smile. “It’s just the two of you. It’s really just _you_.” And then, tiredly, she stands and meets Temari’s gaze. “But. I’m here. You know,” she shrugs. She’s not smiling now. “If you need.”

* * *

Temari is halfway home, the evening news coming to an end on the radio, when Shikamaru finally speaks. 

“I knew them,” he says, looking out the window, arms crossed over his chest, his coat unbuttoned. 

She hits the brake a little hard at the light. She’d figured they were from Konoha mostly because she didn’t know them from Suna, but that meant nothing — people like them were pulled from all areas of government service. Still, she’s a little surprised to hear Shikamaru knows them. None of them had given her that inclination at all. 

“They were older,” he says, as though knowing what she is thinking. “I don’t know if they remember me, but I remember them.” Shikamaru hangs his head, swings it back and forth, as though relieving a crick. “Well, I remember him. From the academy.”

She remembers walking out and seeing Neji and Shikamaru comfortably in conversation over drinks in a way she’s only rarely seen him. 

“Did you talk about it?”

She isn’t sure why she says it, she isn’t sure what she wants to know… that he spoke to someone else, a fellow countryman, in a more intimate way than he speaks to her, bar one time when she was high out of her fucking mind? 

Shikamaru, likewise, turns to stare at her, frowning as though he doesn’t understand the question. He looks back out his own window again before he speaks. 

“What would we say?” He inquires instead.

Temari swallows, fingers gripping the steering wheel. Clearly prying into personal matters was a trait of Tenten’s and not Neji’s. 

“He is a war photographer,” Shikamaru says eventually when she doesn’t respond. “That’s what we talked about.” They’re off the main streets now and the car only lights up every twenty seconds when they go under a streetlight.“He just got back from being embedded for eight months covering insurgencies in the north.”

Temari thinks about this. Strategic. “He didn’t seem like the creative type.”

“He has, or at least has developed, a good eye. Says he started freelance, just covering what he could, until he was hired full-time a couple of years back. He got back two months ago. Says now he’s mostly photographing political protests, legal issues… but in a few more months, they’ll probably send him back out.”

“And Tenten, she stays here? Does he maintain contact with Konoha?” 

“I don’t know,” Shikamaru says. “Probably not much, if he can do anything. I doubt they’d send another handler to follow him around.”

“And her?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Shikamaru shrug. “Works by herself usually, I suppose.” He sighs, looks further out the window. “We didn’t discuss it.”

That’s interesting, especially considering what Tenten had said. She doesn’t know how old they are, but if they’re both older than Shikamaru, at a minimum they’ve been here five years. She wonders how she will feel — any different? any more comfortable? any more set in the clear lines of routine? any more lonely? — in four and a half years?

She could have had that job — they could have… she could be stuck photographing couples and families and Shikamaru could be gone for half the year, every year. Her routine, her life, her choices, could all be made solely to her liking. In a lot of ways, she thinks, that would be easier. Light years easier. After all, as Tenten had said, she is alone. 

As they turn back onto a more trafficked street, Temari speeds up. She glances at Shikamaru, who is leaning back in his seat, his long black scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, even in the heat of the car. 

Temari looks back at the road. Maybe, if she’d met him at eighteen, she would have thought on him differently. She smiles, slightly, to herself — no, he’d have only been fifteen… she probably would have hated him more. 

Maybe if she’d known Tenten, before, they would have been friends? She was a little too free with her words, but Temari didn’t dislike her. And maybe, having done this for at least five years, she too would act similarly. 

In the morning, when Temari steps outside for the paper — Shikamaru is in the office, probably last minute throwing together all the schoolwork he doesn’t do on time —, she finds a package waiting in the mailbox. Nicely wrapped, individually in parchment, are two framed photographs with the negatives tucked behind the photos. Temari opens them on the kitchen counter. They look quite good. She hates when people smoke, but Shikamaru does look attractive, more tempting, with a cigarette between his lips and his hand splayed wide on her thigh. And she thinks, in the wedding photograph, it’s better that you can’t really see their faces.

She mediates, while finishing her first cup of coffee, and then places the one Tenten had posed of them in the dorm room on a shelf in the living room next to their only other framed photograph, one he took of her on the plane at the beginning of their honeymoon, which has been up since she developed the honeymoon rolls back in August. The wedding one she takes upstairs and leaves atop the dresser. 

It’s a good set of photographs. It isn’t much, but it’s enough, surely. And in a few years, these locations will be full. Once there are children, those will be the only photographs people will want to see. 

* * *

The woman Temari is in conversation with gets pulled away. Temari thinks it was Ruka’s neighbor, but she doesn’t quite remember. It was very brief. And Ruka has invited a lot of people for such a tiny apartment. Now, as the evening has really just begun, she turns to eye the room to make her next move. She is thinking of following the woman, or otherwise migrating to another group in discussion, but she stops when, to the left, she sees Shikamaru and gets caught up staring at him. 

He is in a corner with a few people, leaning against the wall, not seeming to pay attention to much of the conversation before him. Instead he looks tired, lazy, head heavy on his neck, hands still at his sides. 

Except that is just how he is. It’s how he often appears. He is well-aware of every word uttered, well aware of his surroundings. He is only seconds from feeling her eyes on him and looking up to see her staring. 

He speaks then, contributes something to the conversation, but even from too far away to quite hear it, she can see the confidence he speaks with, the arrogance, the sense of annoyance at having to have said anything in the first place, even though it doesn’t seem like anyone has asked anything of him and he is freely volunteering this comment to the present discussion.

Wow, she thinks, just watching him, he’s really kind of an asshole. People like him though, they like him a lot.

Temari doesn’t often see him from a distance. So, okay, it’s not just her imagination. He isn’t just this person with her. 

With her, sure, he’ll say more. And smirk more. And when they’re out, he likes to look at her in a certain way, and when he flirts with her in public, it’s mostly more of a game of trying to outwit her rather than actually make her interested in him (if that is the purpose of flirting for most people), but otherwise he is mostly like this: quiet, cocksure, bored. 

As if on cue, Shikamaru, having finished whatever contribution he offered to his group in the corner, glances up to catch her staring at him. He smirks. 

Temari rolls her eyes and turns on her heel, deciding to approach one of her coworkers instead.

Shikamaru never looks at her that way in private, though she won’t say she hates it either way. 

* * *

The second time it happens is only a week later, after the holiday party at her work.

All night they’re standing and walking and mingling among all those employed at the labs and his hand is against her back, keeping steady, warm and big. And they stop and talk to people and he is touching her back, her shoulder, hand careful over her wound even though it’s not painful anymore, careful not to move too low on her. It feels very natural at this point — she is used to his touch in public, even as contrived as it is for both of them… but it must feel like that by now, right? It’s been like this for a whole semester. 

She thinks, briefly, as they walk around the party, greeting people, introducing themselves, being as charming and straightforward as possible, that they _are_ a couple, even if a reluctant one. After all, they will have sex and then children and then raise them as parents eventually. But, even as she is used to him by her side, it is upsetting to remember that, with him, she will never really fall in love in her life. She will never really love anyone again, will she? She’ll just have marks she has to fuck and then she’ll have Shikamaru whom she has to procreate with. 

Sex with Shikamaru she imagines — she has thought of it before of course — will be uncomfortable and clinical (she supposes it will be like visiting the gynecologist). He probably won’t look at her and it will take him a while to finish and then he will frown and she will keep her eye on his shoulder above her the entire time, counting down the seconds until it ends. Even if he tries — even if he kisses her and reaches a hand down between them to make it better — it will be awkward and unwanted and they will not speak of it again, except to keep going until she is pregnant. And then again, eventually, when it is time for another child, and on and on. And the purpose, in the end, always, will be so clearly for procreation, that there will never truly be anything good about it. 

Or maybe it won’t be like any of that all, maybe it be will hundreds of times worse. She can’t quite imagine it well or in detail. She doesn’t. She doesn’t like to. It feels unnatural, thinking about that, even now, when _this_ feels normal, as they sit at a table, knees touching and his voice in her ear. This is what she knows, this is constant and close, and over the past five months, something she has become accustomed to, and the thought of anything more is practically unfathomable. 

This is what she is thinking about, what she is ruminating on, when she does it. It’s at the afterparty, at the bar, as they sit there with her team and friendlier coworkers and their dates and the friends she has accumulated, sipping on his whiskey after she finishes her own drink even though it burns her throat in a way she doesn’t like. 

Maybe that’s why — she is drunk (not quite properly, but almost… certainly more than she has been since she met him) and her stomach is warm and she has been smiling all night and Shikamaru is there. He’s always just so… _there_. Always around. It’s never been anything but annoying, but its tenacity and consistency has rooted into her and his presence beside her suddenly feels like fire in her hands, beneath her fingernails. And she is sitting beside him, right beside him, watching, as he sips his glass, then tugs at his tie, grunts in relief as it loosens, and then reaches for the first button of his shirt, tight at the base of his throat. 

She watches, warm, the conversation around them filtering out, as his fingers, nimble and long, and always graceful, even after a long night and too many drinks, pop that first button free. And then the next one. And then one more. 

He isn’t looking at her or giving any inclination of trying for her attention. There is no meaning in the gracefulness of his hands except solely to loosen his collar, to relieve the press of it against his throat, but there is no meaning to what she does either, so it’s all fair. 

Temari, breath short, not thinking through too much except her eyes on his fingers, on the skin of his throat, his neck, his _tie_ , reaches out and grabs at his now undone collar, twisting at the waist and pulling him forward to bring her mouth to his. 

She can’t think clearly enough. She can’t think through anything. There is a moment, after she first kisses him, when she is doing nothing but kissing him, but then, slowly, things start to come back; start to seep in. They’re at a table with others. There is a conversation going on. She has absolutely no reason to do this. Her chest is so warm. Too much. And she is kissing him, fingers gripping his shirt, lips pushed hard against him, just as they were choreographed to be one week prior.

It’s only a kiss. A hard, surprising, push of her smooched lips against his, his rushed exhale hot against her skin, and it’s only for a second, and then she feels his hand at her elbow, gently pushing her back, and, like a slap to the face, Temari remembers fully where she is. 

She remembers who she is. And who he is. 

And she pulls away. 

When she blinks, Shikamaru is still holding onto her elbow, even as she lowers her hand from his shirt. She can feel her heart beat in her throat, in her temple. He keeps his grip, keeps his eyes on her, unrelenting and slightly panicked in their question, but eventually, with flushed cheeks and a squeeze to her elbow, he lets her go and settles back to focusing on the group. He must have answered whatever question he was seeking from her. 

Slowly, Temari turns back to the table, hands flexed, fingers spread wide on her thighs. She doesn’t know what she is doing. She swallows, her throat suddenly dry, blood pulsing in her ears. She needs a glass of water, but all she does is take another sip of his drink, although she has clearly already had too much. 

Shikamaru, to his benefit, acts like nothing has happened. Acts, there, like a kiss is nothing out of the ordinary; and acts, later, as they drive home in silence, as though she has done nothing at all different. He doesn’t ask about it for the rest of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all the encouragement! it really keeps me motivated!  
> and thank you to whoever the anon was who brought up shikamaru drinking whiskey all those months ago on tumblr when i was writing this


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a generous thank-you to carol and appy, and an extra HUGE debt of gratitude to emma for an absolutely amazing last-minute sub in. you are all completely fantastic.

Temari leans her elbows on the bar, digs her bone into the wood, and pulls the little spear in her drink against the rim so that the maraschino cherry stuck on it moves down the stick. Her drink is mostly full. It’s only been ten minutes. 

She sips at it, waits patiently for a minute, and then looks around. It’s not too crowded. Enough people around to not make a statement, but not many coming in and out. She goes back to the spear, playing with the cherry, long black hair pulled over one shoulder to expose the line of her spine.

He has been here for about two minutes. He, too, is sitting back and looking around, from one of the tables facing the bar. 

He’s eyed her, twice now, but his eyes haven’t stayed on her. One woman went to speak to him though, and he had declined the conversation. 

So Temari looks up from her drink, looks over her shoulder and finds him again, like she has evaluated the others and is settling on him. He smirks. She smiles, invites, raises the spear carefully to her mouth and sucks off the cherry right between her lips.

It has always been easy. People have always been predictable. 

* * *

“You’re new,” he notes, placing his jacket and wallet on the dresser. He takes off his watch. “I know all the girls here.” He isn’t very interested, which is ideal, and is only making conversation. 

“I heard there was work.” Temari stands by the bed, feeling much taller with the significant height of her heels. She watches him get ready and then, when he begins to come toward her, she steps forward as well,putting her hands on his chest and pressing, enough to be purposeful, but without any threat. She walks him carefully backwards until his knees hit the armchair and he tips back into it. “You’re from the village?”

Minoichi huffs shortly, sitting down now, as she leans over and slides her hands off his shoulders to stand between his open thighs. She licks her lips, pouts them, and plays with one strap of her dress, but as he looks at her, he looks almost bored. She knows it’s a good angle. Perhaps he just does this enough. Perhaps he has too many other interesting things in his life. 

“No,” he says, after a moment, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

“It doesn’t seem like many people have lived in Curtain for a long time, I didn’t know what work they were talking about until I saw you.”

“There’s work,” he confirms. “You should bring friends.” 

He scoots up, reaching for her hips.

She hums at his touch, and then fully pulls her strap down and reaches up for the other one. There hasn’t been anyone in the Silence for a long time. Not since the wars ended. She knows this. 

Temari pulls down her dress, slowly, watching him watch her, fingers tight on the fabric, pulling it down over her breasts to sit at her waist, where his hands are resting. And then he moves, rubbing, down and around her butt, and then further down, around her, into her groin. No one has touched her there in a long time. He massages for only a moment and then he moves back up to her hips. 

“Huh,” he smirks. “You’ve got great tits.”

Temari tilts her head, then takes his hands from her stomach up to cup her breasts, to feel her nipples. She knows how to do this. 

She exhales, tilts her head back, and makes a noise. Once. Twice. She closes her eyes as he touches her. 

And then, as if coming to a sudden realization, she opens her eyes wide and looks back down at him. “You fought in the war, didn’t you?”

Minoichi laughs, louder now, and comes back as she leans forward, letting his hands fall from her. 

“Wow,” Temari breathes, lips wide in amazement. She lowers down to kneel between his knees. She touches his chest again. “You’re so strong,” and he is. “And _young_ ,” she says, moving her hands over his chest, undoing the first few buttons of his collar. They’re hard underneath her fingers. She’s not as smooth as Shikamaru had been. She moves again, running her hands down, over his chest, his pecs, his stomach, his hips and his thighs, spreading them wide, and then coming up to press slightly to the side of the bulge in his pants. “I’ve never met anyone who fought.” She says, just a breath. “No one in the city did anything. You must have been so brave!”

He huffs a laugh again, but it is lower now, his response gruffer. “They don’t like to get their hands dirty. In the city.” The conversation is over now. He is no longer interested in just talking. So she bends her head lower, scratches her nails down to his belt. He breathes through his mouth as he watches her undo it. He inhales as she opens the fly and gently pulls out his cock. 

It’s been a long time since she has done this, but, like they say… riding a bike. 

“Suck,” he says, only as her mouth is centimeters from his skin. “Get me harder.”

Tentatively, she flicks her tongue out. 

He grips the back of her head. “You’ll need to work harder if you want me to fuck you.”

His hold isn’t forcing her down, so she looks up under her lashes and smiles. “I do,” she almost whines. “I want you to, so bad,” and then she opens her mouth and leans down and _sucks_ in one long motion. 

Temari has never been particularly good at this, but often even mediocrity is fine. She’s always found, if you don’t know any tricks or aren’t inventive, men (and it’s pretty rare she is sleeping with someone else) are more than happy to put you where they want you. 

It hurts her jaw, tastes bitter on her tongue, and she hopes she won’t have to blow him for too long. But it could be worse. It could always be much worse. Plus, not that it means anything or makes any difference, but she hadn’t been lying earlier — he is handsome and only ten or so years older than her, which is definitely not the norm. 

This whole step lasts longer than she wants it to, even as she raises off him with an exaggerated _pop_ to ask what else she can do.

She goes faster when he asks, uses her hands more, feels his fingers in the hair of her wig, moving her hair aside to watch as she continues to go down on him, quick and short and only broken up by the occasional pause while she licks from the base of his penis up to the top, circling her tongue before continuing. And it’s easy, eventually, to find a rhythm. 

And then, suddenly, and with no warning, he leans forward to grab her shoulder and, without quite wholly shoving her away, he pushes her back and turns her around so she is on her knees on the hotel’s carpet, and her dress is being shoved up and her underwear pulled down. 

Just like that, he is inside her. And not gently. 

It hurts; she’s not ready, but she’s fine. It’s nothing noteworthy. Nothing too unusual, even. And, in the comfort of having her face hidden from view, buried in her forearms, she smiles with the ridiculousness of it, with the ease and predictability of the whole affair. Men who hire prostitutes, nine times out of ten, are only looking for one of two things from the sexual encounter: a pliable body to be handled as desired; or a person to direct and educate them. There are other reasons, sure, but it’s usually one of the two, and while the latter is most conducive to her end-goal, the former is easier to have sex with. 

Her black dress, at this point only a swath of tight fabric from her hips up to the bottom of her ribcage, is hiding her wound. 

It makes her want to laugh, even as her whole body is moving, hips bruised by Minoichi’s hands pulling her onto him over and over. Shikamaru had thought it best for her to try and keep her dress on. While Suna had apparently decided the scar on her stomach was minimal enough to allow her to do this, she and Shikamaru had thought it too risky, especially with someone like Minoichi, who would know what a scar from a bullet wound looks like. 

Honestly, she hadn’t thought she’d get away with it. People mostly want to see women’s breasts, she knows, but even if that’s often the most sought-out, it doesn’t outweigh seeing someone naked in totality. 

But hey — it worked out, even as she hides her smile, and, without touching her dress, she knows it is high enough on her stomach and back to cover the scar tissue. Minoichi reaches forward to pull her hair back while continuing to fuck her from behind. 

She moans, makes a noise with each thrust, legs weak and shaky. 

Somewhere, downstairs, in a familiar car down the block, Shikamaru sits, listening to everything she is doing. 

She can imagine him, leaning back in the front seat, probably, elbow on the window and chin in his hand as he gazes out onto the black street, listening to the noises in this hotel room. She is sure he is judging her too. She’s lived with him a good amount of time now, but she’s never known this side of him, never heard anything like this coming from him. 

She wonders what he thinks when he hears her. 

She can imagine, coming downstairs and getting a play-by-play of everything she’s done wrong, of everything she should have asked. Or maybe, more likely, he’ll ignore her, and simply create a list of things she should have done differently in his head and then not share it with her. Yes, she thinks, as she whines and moans and exhales, that’s what he’s going to do: judge her, think of better strategies, and then never say anything.

* * *

“That was good,” Temari begins, perched on the edge of the bed. “Maybe I should stay in town?”

There is a pause. Minoichi isn’t looking at her, but is standing over by the window, overlooking the single main street of Curtain Village, buttoning up his shirt. 

It’s only ten thirty. 

Temari slips on one shoe and then the other. 

“They told me there was work,” she tries again, “but you were the only interesting one downstairs. I don’t know if there are enough men to interest my friends.”

Minoichi turns around. “I’ve already paid you,” he says shortly, finishing his last buttons. “No need to keep complimenting me.” Finished with his shirt, he tucks it back into his pants. Then, with a sigh, he steps forward. “There are men here,” he says, as if musing on it. “And more coming. There will be enough.”

Temari laughs without humor, short now too, if he is going to be. 

She opens her compact and reapplies her bright red lipstick. Her lips, in the mirror, are swollen. 

“Government paychecks aren’t worth too much though.”

“Hm.” He walks closer, reaches for her hair and tilts her head so she’ll look up at him. She does, lowering her lipstick. He’s strong. Bigger than Shikamaru. “Come back,” he says. He stares at her and then shakes his head. “You have no idea, do you? Ha. No one does.” He huffs and lets her go, but stays where he is, hips tipped forward to her. “They pay lots,” he says, “when they want to keep shit hidden.”

Temari caps her lipstick and closes her compact, shoving them back in her bag. “Hidden?” She asks, as if not paying much attention at all. 

“You think people come to the Silence?” He laughs. “Place is a shit-hole. Those assholes always hire people like us to do their dirty jobs.”

Temari bites her lip as she looks back up at him, knowing how she’ll look even if it does get lipstick on her teeth. She muses on it. 

“Okay. I’ll bring my friends.”

“Bring all of them,” he orders. “By the new year, this place will be a goddamn goldmine for you girls.”

Temari stands off the bed, close to him. Yes, she thinks, as he looks over her body one more time, too easy.

* * *

When the elevator doors open, Temari isn’t unhappy. She isn’t happy either, but she is glad to have the information she has, glad it was so simple to get, and glad that it is a one-time thing with Minoichi and she is only minutes from being comfortably on her way out of here. 

But all of that —the moment she is twenty steps out of the elevator, her too-high-heels clicking on the tiled floor of the hotel lobby — is gone when she sees Shikamaru from the corner of her eye talking to the front desk. It’s a nicer hotel, the nicest in the country, surely, and as she walks, she sees the clerk gesture to her. 

And so, with good feelings gone, Temari makes her way back to the hotel bar instead of out the front door as she was hoping. 

It’s already enough, she thinks, that it’ll take them hours to drive to the border and get into a motel for the night so she can properly shower, and even then, with the ferry and the further driving, it won’t be until tomorrow afternoon that she even gets home. Shikamaru is meant to be waiting in the car, ready to speed out of here, but here he is. 

Temari takes a different seat in the middle of the bar, looking as if she was going back to work. She orders a glass of water, once more sweeping her long dark hair over her shoulder to expose the skin of her back where her dress dips significantly. Her eyes are dry. She wants to take out her contacts. 

After another minute, she clocks Shikamaru come in, and then obviously, purposefully seen by at least the bartender and one of the other women around, he takes off his wedding ring and shoves it into his coat pocket. 

She sips at her water through a straw and goes back to looking down at her glass as he takes a seat toward the end of the bar. He is looking around, looking unsure, evaluating the options, and then, without ordering a drink, he slides off his stool and comes to sit beside her. 

“Is this seat free?”

Temari looks over her shoulder at him, eyes moving to take in his whole form. His coat is thrown over his arm, his hair pulled back. He is sweating. His lips are dry. 

She bats her lashes. “Are you new in town?”

He swallows, stares at her as though he’s never seen anything like her. He seems uncomfortable, his hand in a fist by his side, slightly shaking. “I’m here for a conference.” He is mad though, beneath this. Mad, probably, that he has to be here, doing this, in the first place and not just waiting for her arrival in the car.

Temari hums and swivels around to face him head-on, legs crossed at the knee and positioned to run her foot along the inside of his calf. 

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

He inhales, jumps a little when her foot touches him. “No— I, uh….”

It’s endearing, and works, vaguely, because he seems so young, and if she were a prostitute, she’d probably like to go with him. But she thinks he’d do better to play it suave. He’s so good-looking, she’d be surprised to have someone like him so unexperienced with women. Or maybe she is only thinking that now that she has seen him act stronger, more powerful, than he appears on the outset. Maybe it’s because, beneath this, she can still feel his annoyance, even as he acts otherwise. 

“Is it that obvious? Can I buy you a drink?”

Temari smiles and cuts to the chase. “My rate is three hundred an hour, but it goes up if you want anything weird.”

Shikamaru, taken aback, gives her a look, amused. It’s outside of who he is supposed to be in this moment, and she finds herself smirking, waiting for his answer. 

“Weird?”

Temari tilts her head. “You know,” she says, lowering her voice, “I’ll do whatever you want, _you_ can do whatever you want to me, as long as you pay. I am _very_ reasonable.”

Shikamaru huffs and looks away. 

“Reasonable.” He parrots. “Fine.” He looks back at her. “In my car.”

“Don’t you have a room?”

“Does that cost more? In a car?”

“It’s more dangerous.”

“I’ll pay more.”

Temari pouts and bats her eyes. “It’s too cold.” They’re speaking low, as one would in this situation, but just loud enough to be heard by the tender and the two guests closest to them, if any of them were to listen.

He slips off the stool. “I’m parked outside. Take my coat.”

She complains more, but follows suit, taking the long coat he is extending to her and wrapping it around herself. 

They walk to the entrance and he takes her arm when they step outside. It’s windy out now and it will probably snow later tonight. Her legs, bare beneath his coat, are icicles, and Shikamaru, in only a sweater, looks pale. But the car is only one block down. 

There are multiple cars parked outside with men waiting inside, and she’d seen some bodies lingering around the lobby. 

“They showed up about half an hour ago,” he whispers when the car is in sight.

“Does that mean Gengo is here? I thought he was out of town?”

Shikamaru pulls her closer with his elbow. “Doubt it’s for your guy.” He’s not demure now. His irritation is all out in the open. She can tell, even in the dark of night and the wind biting at her cheeks. She doesn’t know why, but it angers her too. It’s just a job, she wants to say, as they come around the car and Shikamaru unlocks her door. 

Remember, she says to herself, Shikamaru is too. 

But she doesn’t know why she’d say it. She isn’t too sure what she means by it. So, she stays silent.

He doesn’t speak either, and there is a rough tension when they slide into their seats. They haven’t fought intently for some time now, not in a way where anger is clearly directed at the other and not to a minor action. She is used to the feeling though, of being angry with him. 

If Gengo was here, she shouldn’t have come. She should have waited. She should have gotten more information. 

After he hooks in and turns on the heat, Shikamaru looks out and then reaches over, fingers at the back of her head, and with a strong arm, pulls her lower, whispering at her to get down. 

Temari stiffens and, halfway down, refuses to budge any further. 

She is livid. Her blood is pounding.

Beside her, Shikamaru’s cheeks are red from the cold, his lips parted as he glances around, looking outside to the street, keeping his eyes from her.

Temari swallows. She looks down at his lap, at his groin and his thighs. “Sorry,” she says, tasting the bitterness on her tongue, “are you wanting me to blow you too?” He must have sat right here, listening to that. She knows she is being cruel, even as she says it. “Did that turn you on?”

“What — fuck!” Shikamaru snaps his head over to her, incredulous. But she sees, for one moment too many, his eyes look down to her mouth. “No.” He says, hard, angry with her now and not just the situation, which in turn only makes her feelings stronger. “They’re all watching you.”

The security around the hotel, outside it, is watching her. They will be. This is why he was buying her service in the hotel in the first place. 

Shikamaru, exasperated, lets go of her head, but she doesn’t move back, still half-inclined toward him. 

“Can’t you be nice?” He breathes, incensed. “For once?”

Temari inhales. “I can be _real_ nice.”

She doesn’t know why she says it. She doesn’t know what she wants. She just wants to hurt him, somehow, for some reason that she can’t quite articulate. She is furious.

He doesn’t rise to the bait though. He just exhales, slow, eyes boring into hers. But then he blinks and pulls his gaze away, despite his anger toward her, and turns the key in the ignition. 

Temari, knowing he is right (which always makes it worse), does lean all the way down and holds herself, inches from his lap, until he touches her shoulder to push her off, apparently far enough away now. 

She moves immediately, taking off his coat and then straightening to fall against the back of her seat. He drives a mile west, outside of town, and then stops to change out the license plates. Temari takes off her disguise then, puts the colored-contacts away and wipes off her lipstick and puts on pants instead. After that, once they’re both more settled in, they spend the rest of the drive in silence, her words too provoking for them to even discuss the work or what exactly she had gleaned from Minoichi. 

* * *

There is a bell above the doorway as they walk in to announce their arrival, but Hinoto is already looking at them — had surely seen them coming — and there is no one else in sight. 

They walk into the dingy ticket-stand/limited-diner and slide into the booth across from Hinoto without taking off their coats. It’s too cold to do much else. Shikamaru leaves the one suitcase they have by the foot of his seat. 

They haven’t spoken at all since last night except for minor logistics, like how it used to be when they first came to this country. 

Hinoto has already ordered two coffees and they’re still steaming when she and Shikamaru sit down. Their ferry had arrived on time and everything seems good and on schedule.

“Welcome back,” Hinoto begins with, reaching for a napkin where she has spilled some of her coffee. 

She is dressed well, hair pulled back with a barrette and wearing her red pearl earrings as though it isn’t seven am on a Sunday morning on a tiny island with only two towns in the middle of December. It’s not even light out yet, the sun just beginning to crest over the horizon. Shikamaru and Temari, on the other hand, in their pants and sweatshirts and bulky coats, with windswept hair and numb cheeks, certainly fit in more in this empty diner, with its two tables and no waiter in sight. 

“Gengo returned,” Shikamaru says first. “In the middle of the night.”

Hinoto pauses in wiping down the table. “Yesterday?”

“We shouldn’t have gone in so quickly,” Shikamaru continues, voice low, irritation clear, “if he was going to be there.”

Hinoto sighs and folds the dirty, wet napkin, and puts it aside. 

“I agree,” she says. She blinks. “Did you see him?”

“No.” Shikamaru leans back. He hasn’t touched his coffee. He didn’t take any at the port the ferry left from this morning either. “Just security. Everywhere. At least twenty people inside and outside the hotel. They arrived around ten.”

She nods. “Okay. He was there then.”

There is a beat. Shikamaru, apparently satisfied, says nothing else. 

Temari glances at him and then leans forward, wrapping her hands tight around the steaming mug. She’d kept her hands in her pockets in the short walk from the boat into the building, but they’re still freezing and the heat from the coffee shocks them. It burns, but she keeps her hands there. 

“You were right on Minoichi. He confirmed everything. They’re coming before the new year.”

“Who?”

Temari shrugs. “Men like him. Soldiers. ‘Dirty work,’ he said.” She rests her elbows on the table. “Kiri wants to keep it hidden. I didn’t get a number, but it’s more men than you’re thinking. I’d guess at least a hundred.”

“Good,” Hinoto nods, thinking it over. Then she raises her eyes to meet Temari’s head on. “Good work,” she says, sincere, “for your first real run.”

Temari frowns. “It was—”

“Easy for you,” Hinoto cuts her off. “I know. Just take the compliment. Did any of the men see you?”

“Yes.” 

“Nothing to be concerned about.” Shikamaru adds. He reaches out to finger his mug at the handle, twisting it to turn towards him. The logo on his mug, different from the other two, is a fishing market. Probably a local one. “We handled it. They were looking at her. Didn’t even see me.” They were unprofessional, he means. Body guards, goons; not agents. “We’re fine.”

Hinoto nods again, but doesn’t say anything more about it. When she gets up to leave, she leaves her keys on the table for them. 

“Stay,” she says. “Finish the coffee.” And then, after slipping on her coat, she looks down at them. “Order something to eat too. You look tired.” She pats Shikamaru’s shoulder as she walks out. 

* * *

Last night, at the motel, she’d slept well, even in the new environment and with the weight of their fight hanging between them. But tonight, back in her own bed in her own home, she can’t sleep. She knows Shikamaru is awake and it is keeping her up. These days, he seemed to sleep. Or, at least, he seemed to sleep more (which is still less than she does) and is gone in the middle of the night, in the office or downstairs, she doesn’t know, only once or twice a week. 

Tonight though, he is rolling around again, shifting on the mattress, facing the wall. 

It’s too dark to see much, but she can almost see the outline of his form, the expanse of his back, though his black shirt and black hair blend into the darkness. Still, she can sort of make out the white skin of his neck and the white of the blanket, which is down by his waist, even though it’s cold enough, even inside the house, for her to burrow underneath the comforter. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, though it is realistically probably only eleven (half an hour since she went to sleep — she doesn’t want to rise and look at the clock on Shikamaru’s bedside table though, as it will upset her if it’s _too_ late), Shikamaru fully rolls over to face her. He must know she is awake, even though she has not moved and has done nothing all this time except watch him, because he reaches out to settle his hand on where her wrist, up near her face, rests on the mattress. 

He rarely touches her, especially in bed, and even more rarely does he actually touch her skin. But he holds his fingers at her wrist, as though absently, and then pulls away a minute later. 

Her heart, now, is pounding.

“I was fifteen,” he says, quietly, voice gruff, into the darkness, “the first time I went out like that.”

Temari swallows. Frowns. She can’t see his eyes in the dark, but she knows he is looking at her, and it takes her a moment to figure out what he is talking about. 

“Why are you telling me this? I don’t need to hear it.”

“I want to.” He rolls onto his back to look up at the ceiling. “I was a virgin, which is why I was sent. He liked young boys with no experience.”

She sighs. She is used to stories like that. It really isn’t anything. It’s something she has done for years and will continue to do for years after this. It’s as easy as killing someone: it’s not something she forgets, but it’s something she can do without thinking about, without hesitancy. 

“It felt good,” Shikamaru admits, low, “when he was killed afterward.” She’d thought he was done. She wonders how much he wants to say, how far he wants to go. They never talk about this, they never talk about _before_. But she knows he does it when he wants to comfort her, like when she was shot. She doesn’t need to be comforted now though. 

Maybe he does. 

“I didn’t do it, my friend did.” Shikamaru continues. “But I was glad, when he died. Not for society or anything, but because I wanted him to suffer. I’ve never wanted that for anyone before or since. Just him.”

Temari stays silent. She was younger than he was. Things were always worse, always, in Suna. But it’s not a competition. She is sure he’d killed people by fifteen too. It was the way things went, the way they go, for people like them. 

“They sent me to a counselor of course, after. But it never mattered. And they never send you again, do they?” He exhales, long and low. “It’s the job.”

She stares at him, only vaguely seeing the outline of his face in the dark. “The job.” Temari echoes. 

It’s another long time, long, slow minutes, during which she almost falls asleep, before he speaks again. 

“I’ve never done it with anyone else.” 

This, too, takes her a while to figure out. 

She asks it quietly, carefully. “Never not for work?”

“No.” He holds his breath and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t know if I’d know how.”

Temari exhales. She thinks about how he knows where to touch her, about how, in public, he _knows_ what intimacy looks like. And how he’s never learned that, but been told what it is. 

She thinks about that time she put her hand on his knee, back when they first met, back during their honeymoon. She remembers (she thinks about, sometimes) how he said _I’m not ready_. It hurts to think about. When they do have sex, eventually, it too will be for work. He will never touch anyone like that, never desire someone like that: on his own. Never. 

And _that_ hurts. 

As much as he annoys her, as much as she wishes she were sleeping beside someone else, she does _care_ for him. He is, she knows, a good man. He is a good man and he deserves to have had some happiness, something real, _love_ , before this. And now he never will. Not unless he meets someone, which she supposes could happen. He could never leave her, but he could have an affair. He could fall in love. And now, as she lays in bed watching, she finds herself hoping that he will. She hopes he will fall in love, one day, even if she can’t quite bring herself to say it. 

“It’s different,” she whispers instead, “when you want it.” Temari swallows, mouth dry, and then rolls onto her back as well. “Sometimes you do want it, even when it’s for work, of course. When you’re attracted to someone. Maybe when it’s with someone you genuinely like, even if it’s a mark. I mean — you know, I’m sure. But when it isn’t… when it really isn’t….” She imagines sex, remembers real sex. She imagines that desire. Imagines love. “It’s different.” She rolls back to look at him. “I’m sorry,” Temari finishes, sincere, “that you won’t feel that.”

Shikamaru continues to stare at the ceiling. He may not even be blinking. She wishes she could do something more. She wishes she hadn’t been so mean earlier, after he picked her up in the bar. 

“Me too,” he says, and that’s all he says on the matter. 

* * *

Shikamaru has a lot of work over the break. His part time job at the paper, which is usually only four or so hours a week of copy-editing and the occasional student op-ed, has picked up as he’s taken on more in the time off from school. He’s gone most of the month. 

Temari’s labs only close for a week, so she continues on there, even as the main campus shuts down and life around the city slows. She takes the bus, mostly, and for the first time since she’d arrived, it’s often almost completely empty. The streets, cold, with curbs piled high with sleet and plowed snow, are no longer bustling in the usual pre-nine am shuffle. 

It snows a lot, much more than most winters, apparently. There is a storm all over the south. At one point, there are a full six days, some of them falling during her official week off and some not, that neither of them are able to leave the house. 

Things fall into an easy routine. They have friends over once, and go out with people twice together and more on their own, but apart from that, they stay home. 

Temari spends the time studying, bettering her work so she that can understand the more nuanced areas of physics her resume boasts about and keeping up with new theories so that she can ask for more when work picks up again. Shikamaru, when he is home, writes more and spends more time in the office (she genuinely doesn’t know most of what he does, so he tries to show her something about codebreaking once. He works on “books,” he says, which isn’t about cracking individual communications, but the books used to generate the codes. It takes years, really, and he can’t do much as he isn’t on a team. These are old books, apparently, and are not of ready use now (of course not, they have teams of people whose sole job is to decode these things back home), but he has the time and interest in working on these things that are generally on the back-burner, primed for people like him who are hobbyists and, as he says, good linguists (cunning linguist? she asks; that’s low, he says, unamused, even for you), and he has a talent for sitting there for hours and hounding things out. To her, his work ends up being much more boring, theoretical, and tenuous than she expected), so they don’t spend too much time actually together. 

With all the time off, it’s easy to miss home. When she has work, both at the labs and for Suna, she spends most of her time concerned about the day-to-day, about maintaining her cover; things like that. But when she has all this time, time to sit and ruminate and not engage in easy distractions, she finds herself slipping into more and more memories of her life and her childhood. Sometimes, it feels like it is all over for everyone. As though, when she left, life back there simply… ended. For everyone. But of course that’s not true. Her whole city, her country, is moving on without her. The smells and voices and touches she knows are all still happening. If she could go there right now, she would know exactly what to expect, would know exactly what she would see, who she would be with. 

It doesn’t snow in Suna much. It happens each year, but it’s not prevalent. And when it does, it’s mostly some flurries whipping past in the wind. The snow never really sticks for long and is almost always gone by afternoon. Not like here. 

She knows it snows in Konohagakure. It snows a lot there. The storm that hit them here, keeping them indoors for almost a week, also hit the Fire. It’s on the news, pictures of Shikamaru’s city and country. She knows, as they sit on the couch and watch it, his elbows on his knees, eyes staring at the tv, that he is thinking of his friends and his family and picturing his life before and thinking about what it looks like in that many feet of snow. He is thinking about his home and the people he knows and the streets he was raised on. She knows, because she is thinking about this, her home, too. 

She can imagine Suna well enough. She knows how the street is cleared every morning, even in light snow, and the food that is cooked during the season, and the smell of wood burning in fire places (she also knows the voices of hungry people and limited winter food rations and the frailty of bodies underneath heavy coats). It’s not like that here, not at all. Temari shovels snow from their own driveway, they don’t have a fireplace, but use central heating, and here, people have lots of food, and everyone is always cooking it and bringing it and offering it, and making so much and then throwing so much away. 

She and Shikamaru talk about this sometimes, but not much. By now, they’ve discovered so much of Kiri’s otherness in comparison to their own sense of normalcy and morality, that there isn’t much more for them to discover. Not much more to be surprised at. 

“We’re stronger,” she says, once, legs crossed beneath her on one end of the couch. Shikamaru, who is already looking at her, doesn’t move. “We’re tougher. Our people care for one end, one goal, more than they do here.”

Shikamaru watches her for a while, on the opposite end of the cushions, his legs spread long between them, bent slightly to not touch hers with his socked toes, his eyes hard and unblinking. Then he agrees. “Yes. It made us stronger.” But he doesn’t say much more. She wonders what he has seen, she wonders what Kiri brings up for him. 

All in all, time passes slowly. They are each caught in their own routine, and as no communication comes from Hinoto, they spend their time as regular young adults: biding this season in complacency until something more happens. 

* * *

He stares for a while. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t gasp or frown or anything like that. He just stares, taking in the board before him, evaluating it, as though not sure what he is seeing. 

Temari keeps looking between him and the gift, tilting her head as she is shoulder to shoulder with him and he is taller. When she’d brought him into the kitchen, she’d been expecting a different reaction. 

He swallows, eventually, before he speaks. “They don’t play here,” he says, hard. 

Temari frowns and steps away from him, arms crossed at her chest. 

“Not like you do, no. But I asked around. Some people do. And most people know of it. It’s a growing interest.” She huffs and looks at him until he gives her something more. “You don’t have to be worried about it, if that’s the problem?”

Shikamaru finally looks over at her. “You knew I played?”

She shrugs. “I figured. I have met you, you know.” He smiles at that, and that makes her happy; that is what she wants. “It’s slow,” she continues, “very little physical exertion, and it is only worth as much mental work as you’re choosing to put into it at any given time. It’s very flexible like that.”

She hadn’t actually known he knew how to play the game. She had just guessed. 

But it’s clear now, from the spark in his gaze and the weight in his breath, that he is well versed. And maybe he had craved it more than she could have possibly expected. 

They didn’t exchange gifts at any other holiday, their birthdays went largely unmentioned, and it is only on occasion that one even purchases something for the other without request. She knows that this is the time to give things though, even if only material, and so she figures this — a game she’d thought about a few months ago in passing and then realized he probably really liked — is an easy solution. 

“Do you play?” Shikamaru has moved away from her and is at the table now, fingers on the board, touching the pieces.

“I know how.” Temari leans her hip against the counter. “You’ll be fine,” she encourages. “You can teach your friends.”

“I can teach you.”

Temari huffs. “I told you, I know how to play.”

He turns over his shoulder to look at her, brows raised. “Hm.” And then he turns back to the game. 

He means that, even if she knows _how_ to play, she doesn’t know how to beat him. She probably should have seen this coming. She should avoid doing anything that might stroke his ego. 

“Sure,” she shakes her head, turning away to head back to the tv show she’d been watching. “We’ll see.”

* * *

“How is it?” She asks at the end of their conversation. “With him?”

Temari instinctively opens her mouth to say _okay_ , but then stops. It’s not as clear cut as it was the last time Hinoto asked. 

Things _are_ okay… they’re not great — not by any means — but they are certainly better than they were. She doesn’t dislike his company. Sometimes, she even wants it. She no longer looks for ways to be mad at him, no longer finds herself dreading his appearance. Sometimes, she even finds herself looking at him like — she… she just finds herself looking at him. 

She cares for him more than she used to, maybe… generally. 

It’s mid-afternoon and Temari is at the history museum. She’s looking at a display in the corner and Hinoto is a few feet away looking at another one. Nobody else is around. They’re in a hall about pottery. She is hungry, but it’s too late for lunch. She needs a snack. 

Hinoto walks past Temari to view something on her other side, waiting for the answer. 

Temari looks at the display before her, but doesn’t really register anything she is seeing. 

How _is_ it? 

She doesn’t know. 

She thinks about Shikamaru. She thinks about how, a little while ago, when she got shot (the worst) and he told her that story of his mother. It was nothing. It was one mention that was only about him and actually described nothing of his actual childhood. Some blasé facts with no informative details, and yet, Temari has built an entire narrative around it. She imagines his mother plays shogi, or maybe his dead father, and one of them taught Shikamaru. Maybe he hasn’t touched a set since his father died. Or maybe he was in love with a girl who liked to play. Temari knows nothing. She knows he had friends — even though he prefers being alone, he does seem to understand how to get along with others in a social setting in a way she doesn’t naturally know — and she thinks he grew up with some money in the way he views their bank accounts. But really, it’s all conjectural. She really knows nothing about him from before. She paints these stories from the scarce snippets she hears, and then tries to make sense of how they all add up to the man she lives with today. 

They’re not _good_ though, the two of them. He doesn’t say much to annoy her anymore, but what he does say, when it does strike a nerve, strikes a _hard_ one. They see the world too differently. When it comes down to it, even though she has slept in the same bed as him for months, he is still a stranger. She still doesn’t know what is real, even though she likes to think she does. 

Last time she told Hinoto he was soft. He still is, she thinks. He’s too soft. He wants peace and disarmament. He hasn’t said this (he never would), but he does. She can tell. He’s cynical and critical and often wants nothing more than to be left alone. He is not often happy, and when he is, he never grins or anything; even his laughs, when loud and genuine, are never without a hint of sarcasm. But deep down, he wants more. She can tell this too. 

He is purely optimistic and wants things to work out in the world. He wants to be happy, and he wants to return home and be back with his mother and his friends and wants to find a wife of his own that he really loves. He likes to lay down and feel the sunshine on his face. He likes dedication and he likes loyalty. 

Shikamaru will do the job, she thinks. He’ll honor his commitments and will live or die following orders. He’s cut out for it. She just doesn’t think he should be doing it. It’s not what he wants. Not like her. 

“He does well.” She says, finally, to Hinoto. “But he is soft.”

Temari imagines if he were here right now, standing beside her before some ancient clay-pots with indiscernible patterns, what he would say to this question about how things are. His hand would be hovering beside hers, his turtleneck high up to his ears, the smell of his soap clear if she tries to find it. 

“He only touches me when he has to,” she finishes. “He keeps a clear separation between the cover and his life.”

She turns her head. Hinoto is still looking at the display, eyes on the paragraph of text describing the scene as though she is reading it. But she is frowning at Temari’s comment. Hinoto rarely frowns. Hinoto rarely even emotes. 

She doesn’t know what Temari is saying. Neither does Temari. 

“This is an assignment,” Hinoto says.

“Yes,” Temari answers. He always completes his assignments very well (even if reluctantly). And this, all this, is only just an assignment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know that was rough! thank you all so much for bearing with me.   
> we're now (finally!) halfway!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> massive thank you to carol and em (and apps)

She flips open the bifold badge holder to display the blank spot where their photos will go. She practices flipping it open, doing it a few times until it feels more natural. She hasn’t used anything like this in a while. They’ll take photos tonight in whatever they’re going to wear, looking however they’re going to look. And then, sometime in the next few days, Shikamaru will put the ID’s together for the two of them. He’s better with those types of things, better with his hands. He has more control. 

Temari closes the badge holder and places it on the counter. 

She’s left the bag of things Hinoto gave them in the entryway, opening it and taking out only the badge holders, but there are some extra cameras too, and special clothing meant to hold files, and then a plethora of blueprints and schedules and general documentation of the building they’re going into. 

Shikamaru sighs. It’s short. Neither of them have said anything, so she isn’t too sure what he is annoyed about. He isn’t paying her much attention and is instead concentrating on stirring around the meat he has on the stove. The sleeves of his sweater are rolled up to the elbow. She looks at his wrists as he cooks, the flex and bone of them. He has always had very beautiful lines in his form, even as they’re hard and jagged and missing almost any curve that would normally be considered lovely. 

Oh. Temari turns, moving her eyes away. She swallows. And then goes out of the kitchen to retrieve one of the maps Hinoto has provided. When she comes back, she goes past him to lay it out on the kitchen counter, pushing away the spices and chopped vegetables he has laid out to put the map before him. 

“Here,” she says, pointing to the set of rooms. “They’ve moved everything into these ones.” She can feel Shikamaru come up behind her, close enough that she can feel his exhale on the side of her neck. She holds her breath and tenses against it. It’s rare he stands so close. She stops, rigid, for one second, and then moves on. “We only want what is supposedly in here though.”

“Where is it normally held?”

She points. “They’ve been under construction for only a week.”

“Hm.”

“No guarantee we’ll find much.”

“What are we looking for?”

Temari closes the map and steps to the side, away from him, so she can see him fully from a distance. Shikamaru has a dishtowel hung over his shoulder and she waits as he wipes his hands on it before turning the heat low and stepping back to lean against the opposite counter. 

She puts a hand on her hip. “Codename: Ember.” 

He nods, looking back at the food. 

“Dumb,” she huffs, watching him. “I know.”

The corner of his mouth turns up when he looks back to her, arms crossed over his chest. “Oh, are ours better? B43 and G60?” 

Temari shrugs. “I’m sure they’re cooler in Suna.” Whenever their or Hinoto’s communication makes it back, she is sure it has gone through multiple covers of names — layers upon layers of codes — where she and Shikamaru only know their first version, not the end result. Surely Ember is the last touch of this person’s cover for Kiri, which somehow makes a name already that ridiculous worse. 

Shikamaru smirks and nods in a way that makes it clear he is only indulging her. 

She rolls her eyes, but otherwise keeps watching him. 

It’s not a good time to plan this run right now, both as he is cooking dinner and it’s too late, after too long a day, for her to rally the proper amount of attention needed for this task. Tomorrow they’re both home and can sit down and really figure out what their exact strategy will be. 

Other than that though, she doesn’t really have anything else to say. There is nothing else of interest to impart to him. Likewise, she knows what he did today, knows who he spoke with and how his homework is going. 

She has no reason to stay in the kitchen, no reason to converse any further. But she doesn’t want to leave. She doesn’t want him to stop looking at her. 

“How many people are here, do you think?”

Shikamaru is looking at her like maybe he knows she is fishing for a topic, trying to meaninglessly hold his attention. 

“What?” He asks, going momentarily back to the look over the stovetop. 

“In Kiri. How many of us?”

He shrugs. “Like us? Probably not many more.” He straightens and steps back to the opposite counter again. “But people working for us… I’d assume much more than we’d ever rationally think to expect.”

“Give me a number.”

“Those aren’t the types of cyphers I work on.”

“Guess.”

Shikamaru narrows his eyes, thinking about it. “Two more. If we’re on the west end of the city, and Neji and Tenten are on the east, I’d think they’d have one pair north and one south.” He licks his lips in thought. “I don’t really know. Depending on the work, the covers… there will be people who do much, much less than either of us, but who hold better positions.”

“None of us worked this.” She means their current job. The information Hinoto provided her did not come from one of the couples living here. The knowledge of the material and the time and the maps and the construction — whoever gave it them wasn’t an operative, an agent. Otherwise the actual break-in wouldn’t have been led by her and Shikamaru, but by the person with the first-hand account.

They have people everywhere, she knows. They must. 

Shikamaru is guessing on those Konoha has. Apart from her, Konoha probably won’t know of any Suna agents in Kiri. Similarly, if they are ever put in contact with another couple, it will most likely be a Suna one, lest Konoha make known all their active operatives with reciprocation. 

But she does wonder about the extent. The person who gave them this could be anyone: a security guard in the building, a security guard who contracts with the same company and saw some schematics, an intern, a plumber, someone who has worked for Konoha for years, or someone who took some payment only once in exchange for this information… all are possible. It could be anyone. 

He shrugs again and then steps back to the stovetop. Temari, watching him, pushes herself up to sit on the counter only a few feet from the burners, settling in.

“It will be good,” she muses, tilting her head, “to have extra bodies. More people.” She does mean that, even if she usually prefers working alone.

She’s worked solely with him alone for so long, she practically forgets what it is like to work with others.

“Will it?” He reaches for the pan and then throws in the vegetables she’d pushed away earlier. The sizzle is loud for a moment after he adds them and then quiets down for him to say: we don’t know them. 

“I didn’t know you.” She means on their first mission, way back. 

Shikamaru stirs stuff around the pan. “That was different from this. Easier.” As a job, strategically. If she remembers correctly though, he’d actually done the run, but he’d sat around watching a movie while she’d done absolutely everything else. He looks over at her. “And we’d been together two weeks by then.”

Temari shrugs and then leans back against the cabinet, skull tilted against the door. “I thought you liked him.” 

“I knew who he was. There’s a difference.”

She huffs. “Right.”

Shikamaru looks down at her knees, placed beside his hip at the counter, and then goes back to cooking. 

She has nothing more to say, but she sits, not offering to help, until he is done. 

* * *

The other two are already there when they pull into the parking lot. There aren’t any cars around, and as it’s an old, mostly abandoned series of roads a few hours north from the city; there haven’t been any cars around in a long time. Not even any streetlights. 

Upon their approach, Neji and Tenten step out of their car. They’re both mostly unrecognizable upon first glance, Tenten with short red hair and freckles, and Neji with equally short light brown hair and a mustache. 

Temari and Shikamaru are the same as the other two: hardly recognizable. They may be identified by someone who knows them intimately, but even then, it would take some time and intensive observation. They’ll be on camera, which is why they’re so heavily made up. 

The office will know that there was a break-in, will know documents were stolen. Although, with the construction, one of the (many, many) benefits is that most cameras will be largely avoided, but their faces will still be seen directly on two of them and partially in a dozen others. Security footage, especially in a place like this, is notoriously shitty. But still, even if grainy and not in color, the tape will be scrutinized, compared with others, and catalogued for future reference. 

“Hi you two. How are you?” Tenten asks as soon as Shikamaru has pulled over and they’ve gotten out. 

“Fine,” Shikamaru answers, walking over to hand Tenten the coat she’ll wear. She takes off her personal one for the specific one Hinoto had given. 

“Good,” Neji answers, as though that’s some sort of confirmation he needed. 

Tenten meets Temari’s eyes and smiles. 

Time, then.

She has the map in her hands and she opens it over the hood of Neji and Tenten’s car. Neji holds the flashlight as Temari walks them through the plan. The assumption is that anything of the specific value they’re seeking will be held in a small office that usually is occupied by one of the filers, but has been repurposed as storage during the construction. 

“And getting out?” Tenten asks. 

Temari points out one of the back exits, only forty yards from the tree line. 

“There are six on staff this late. A clerk at the front desk, the night-sergeant, and four other guards on the premises: two on rotation, two on the cameras. All six armed.” 

“Pretty straightforward.”

Temari exhales and glances at Tenten. “It should be.”

They get back in their respective cars. Tenten’s right, it is straightforward. That makes it a thrill, always. Especially when Temari hasn’t done much. Especially because it’s not nearly as planned as it would be if she were back home, if she were still just in the academy, if she were still solely on the Kiri desk. It would all be different. But here, this… it’s more dangerous, but also easier in many ways. It’s less time, less money, and in some ways, less risk. Straightforward in its execution, dangerous in its lack of preparation.

They’re driving in silence. Shikamaru never likes to talk before things, he never likes to go over details or confirm something they’ve already discussed. Some people she’s worked with repeat every detail over and over, create a mass schema of contingency plans, and work out the nerves of anticipation with conversation. Shikamaru doesn’t. He never likes to talk much about anything as it is, and less in these situations. When they were in Curtain, he didn’t speak the entire trip in or out. 

So she’s not expecting it — is surprised to the point of worry, if only momentarily — when he looks over at her and smiles. 

“I’m glad we get to stay in a hotel.”

Temari turns away from him, frowning, and focuses her eyes out the window. It’s amazing how empty most of the island is once they leave the city. 

She has no idea what he means, but she knows, after sitting with it a second, that he is joking. He is flirting, maybe. Vaguely. She rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, god forbid we spend an extra two hours driving home.”

They turn a corner. 

“We’ve been in that house for so long.” Shikamaru says, once he’s changed gears and settled back into a steady pace. “This winter has been so long.”

“You never seem to leave the house voluntarily, so I’m not too sure what you’re on about.” Plus, it’s only January. Winter is hardly over.

Shikamaru laughs. She isn’t looking at him, but she finds herself smiling at the sound, chest warm with the satisfaction of its retrieval.

“There are other people outside, usually. People to speak with and places to be.” As though that is a sufficient response.

“Imagine being Neji,” she finds herself saying, likewise not really knowing what she means. “He leaves for months and months and probably sleeps in caves and trucks and tents.” It’s probably why he always looks to be in such a bad mood. 

“And Tenten gets to spend her time however she wants. Sounds like a good deal.”

Temari turns to look at him, twisting so her shoulders and back are pressed against the door, head tipped to the window to make her words more taunting with her chin raised. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She feels the words come out slowly, feels them form on her tongue. “Would you like me to leave you alone more? So you can fiddle away silently in your office for the rest of your life?”

Shikamaru doesn’t turn to look at her, but he smirks knowing she is watching him. “Like I said, ‘not a bad deal.’”

She isn’t even quite sure what they’re talking about. She isn’t sure what she intends or why she is even saying it, but she keeps speaking. She keeps the words coming. “If I weren’t around, whose legs would you watch walking up the stairs?”

“It’s not just your legs I’m looking at,” he says without missing a beat, eyes still on the road. “And in my defense, they’re very steep stairs.”

Temari huffs, taps a finger to her chin. “Hmm, maybe there is something to be said for having a house to myself for eight months out of the year while you live in a cave….”

It comes naturally, even though they’ve never spoken like this. Even though it’s all only a joke. But she feels it in the twitch of her fingers, in the heat of her neck. 

Shikamaru doesn’t seem to be thinking much on things either in how quickly he responds, though he is always aware of what he is doing, always aware of what she wants.

“With no one around,” he says, eyes still on the road, “you’d have no reason to wear such tight skirts.”

She scoffs lightly. She wants to protest, to object that her recent change in fashion was, if anything, a societal trend, not a personal one. She’s really just keeping up with the moment. But she doesn’t, because, even if he _is_ right (which he’s not), she knows he is really only making fun of her. 

“You’re right,” she knows this game, knows what, if this were another man, maybe, she would want this to lead to. “If I were alone, I’d just walk around naked every day.”

“Think of the heating bill.”

She inhales before she says it, as though baiting herself to stop, though she can see the light in his eye, visible even in this dark and with his gaze on the road, and she feels it all the way in her gut. 

“I’d think of ways to warm myself up.”

Shikamaru tilts his head and swallows (she traces the bob of it in his neck), but he still doesn’t look at her. 

He stops smirking. “Fair.” He says, after a moment, and then he doesn’t say anything else. 

They’re off the main road again and once more have no streetlights whatsoever. Shikamaru turns on the brights. Behind them, driving close, is the other car.

Temari stays sitting against the door so that she is facing him. 

She shouldn’t have said anything. She should have remembered who they were and who he was to her. She should remember what he said in bed a few weeks ago.

She wonders what Neji and Tenten are talking about. What do they talk about in general? Do they often work with others? Or is this their first time being with anyone beside the other, beside themselves, in a long time? Much longer than either Temari or Shikamaru has gone? What do they discuss in bed at night? 

Then she finds herself wondering how much Shikamaru has thought on them. She imagines them — the only other two she knows — often. Does he think about their marriage like she does? 

It’s only a few minutes before they’re pulling to a stop twenty feet from the perimeter of the security cameras outside the office building, in the tree line, hidden right off the road. They’d be easily visible in the daytime, but right now, they should be fine. 

Temari flips down the visor and looks at her reflection in the mirror. She adjusts the silicon changing the shape of her nose, just a tad, and then smooths everything once over. She looks good. She looks sufficiently different. Then she adjusts her coat, sweeps the low bangs on her face back behind her ears, and checks the two weapons she is carrying. 

When she is done, she looks up to see Shikamaru finishing his own check in the mirror. 

“Good?” She asks. And he looks over, gives her a curt nod, and then opens his door. 

They leave the keys in their car and walk over to the one idling behind them, the black car with the government plates, where the other two are waiting.

* * *

Pretty straightforward may even be an understatement. When they display the badges at the front desk, the ones Shikamaru made earlier in the week, the man sitting there nods as though he has long expected this surprise inspection. 

If any main office were under construction, there would have been full vetting and constant observation of each move, each minor shift in security or protocol. But here, for outlets like this, there is very little put into the process. The government will send people from the city to check in on the development of the construction, and the safety protections for the stored information, only every now and then. There is nothing critical or urgent happening here. No life-threatening intelligence stored here, it seems. Just some old records. Nothing archived or dead, but minor, older things; things that they don’t need on-hand, but also that they don’t want to have to search a dingy basement to get. 

They’re not even given a guide as they’re sent down the halls of the building. The clerk simply asks if they know the way and then waves them on, going back to whatever he was doing when they entered. 

Temari leads and the other three follow behind her. 

It’s a smaller office. One building, one story, a little over two dozen rooms separated by two main hallways and then a handful of little turns. It’s not far to their destination. All the lights are still on even though it is already late at night and, apart from the single guard waiting at the entrance and the man at the desk, they haven’t seen anyone else. Scratchy carpeted floors and artificial lighting round out the picture of a mediocre government satellite office. 

Without looking directly at them, Temari notes that the locations of the security cameras are consistent with the blueprints.

Within a minute they come up to the rooms under construction, but they move past there, further, until they’re outside an office space crammed with boxes upon boxes, seemingly in complete disarray, piled on top of one another and stuffed into a small room. The door isn’t even closed. Temari glances over and Tenten shrugs. Apparently this is the level of security they should expect. Maybe they could just walk out with everything all together? Maybe there is no need for any other plan? 

They enter here, seamlessly, and behind them, Neji leaves the door open only an inch. They’ve never worked together before, but they’ve all been trained for the same ends. Without speaking, Tenten and Temari take off their long coats, and then Tenten and Neji head first to look at some of the computers piled in one corner while Temari and Shikamaru reach for the boxes, each taking one. 

Temari’s first box is already open. She shifts through, pulls some files apart, running her fingers over the top and reading whatever markings are there. She pulls out one file completely and flips through it. No, nothing. This box isn’t good. 

She moves it down to the floor and reaches for the next one, pulling off the top and searching through there. 

The problem is, they don’t know what they’re looking for. They know the codename of the mole. It’s not someone at a very high level. It’s likely some mid-level diplomat who’s probably no longer even active. Some Konoha foreign service officer, she thinks: a person who was giving minor information, snippets of overheard conversation, to Kiri. She doesn’t know — she really has no idea — she’s just been told _Ember_. Someone else, some other informant, has been following the lead, finding out, maybe over years, where the information on Ember would be. And then someone else provided the information to allow them to break-in. And now they’re here, putting both aspects of the operation together. Even if it’s old and the mole is no longer even around, Konoha wants to know what they can about him or her. 

So she and Shikamaru each have their cameras and are photographing anything that looks the least bit useful or relevant. 

The second box doesn’t seem to have anything either. 

They only have fifteen minutes. 

In the third box though, she sees, for only a second, meeting schedules. Meeting a source. No codename. Maybe it’s something? She takes her microfilm camera and photographs it. She spends more time on that box, photographing as much as she can. And the next box. She doesn’t like anything in the fifth and puts that one away quickly. 

Shikamaru is in another corner, doing the same thing to the boxes there. It’s not their job to find the right information, just to find any potentially relevant information. Maybe they don’t want to know _who_ Ember is, maybe they simply want to know what Ember has done? Or some other information Kiri has on Ember? She has no idea. 

She’s on her twentieth box when there is a beep from Neji’s watch. They all stop. Fourteen minutes on the dot. 

Reaching for her coat and spreading it open on the ground, Temari starts grabbing the documents and files she has put aside and slipping them into the pockets inside her coat. The ones that look possibly helpful, she has photographed, the ones that look consistently relevant (especially when there are multiple documents surfacing from one box), she takes with her, stuffing them deeply into the pockets.

Neji comes over to her pile and begins helping her fit as much as she can. The pockets of the coats are designed to fit an 8 x 11 paper almost exactly, so it’s not easy to fit them in, and each packet takes some jiggling. Tenten and Shikamaru are putting the stuff he has chosen into her coat. 

After sixty seconds, there is another beep from Neji. Time to go. 

The fifteen-minute timer is based off no particular limit, as much as whoever offered the research gave fifteen minutes as the optimal time before their presence becomes less and less safe. 

Temari looks up at the beep. The other two seem to be done. She exhales. Okay. Good. 

She stands, slipping on the coat, that, with so much paper, is noticeably heavier and bulkier than when she first entered. She steels her core, her shoulders, and follows the rest of them to the front of the room. She and Tenten will now go back out the front door while the men go out the back as a distraction. They could all walk out, probably, but a regular inspection requires more steps and more hours, and it’s safest to get out as quickly as possible, to be on camera for the shortest amount of time. Plus, they’ll realize the paper was stolen eventually anyway. No need to hide it. 

Neji closes the door behind them quietly. 

They all exit down the same way they came, but pause at the corner, shoulder to shoulder along the wall. They’ll separate here, the women, with their long coats and underestimated gender, will go back out the entrance. The men, out one of the back ways; longer, with fewer cameras, and closer to where Shikamaru parked the car. 

“Half an hour,” Tenten whispers, confirming. Half an hour to get settled. 

Temari swallows. She is stiff under the coat, and her heart is pounding. She is moments from getting out of here. She doesn’t like this part — being so openly present in a government building, even a low security one, where she is one touch away from getting caught. She breathes, slowly, shoulders pressed against the wall, and then moves forward to turn the corner, ready to begin the final step, but she is stopped by Shikamaru, his arm coming out strong to push her back against the wall, forearm against her sternum. 

He isn’t looking at her, but past her, just shy of fully looking around the corner. He must have heard something. 

They all stop. No one else seems to have heard anything, but after a moment with breaths held, she can make out the faint footsteps of someone down the next hall. They’re quiet and not staccato. Likely someone with rubber soles on the carpet. A guard, maybe. They’re not supposed to roam though.

She holds still. Waits. The footsteps get quiet — are already so quiet — and it is unclear when they actually disappear. They’re over their window, in totality, by almost two minutes. 

Shikamaru drops his arm from in front of her, and taking that as sign enough, Temari and Tenten step past the other two and begin quickly and loudly making their way back to the front, breath coming in fast. They don’t turn back to see how the others made it. 

Temari is in front, looking frazzled and scared when they come to the front desk. They haven’t seen any guards or anyone else in the vicinity on their way. The guard who was here earlier is gone.

The clerk is standing the moment he sees them. 

“We left the room,” she says quickly, voice breathy, unsure, nervous, “and when we came back, the door was locked.” Temari brushes her hair out of her face. “The others, they didn’t answer our knocks! I don’t know—”

The clerk immediately takes hold of the phone and directs someone, likely the guards, to check out the construction zone. 

“Where were you?” He asks. “Which room?”

“Thirteen, maybe fourteen,” Tenten supplies, blinking, palms flat on the high counter. “The one closest the east side!”

The man repeats this into the telephone. He’s young. It’s a shitty shift to get. He’s probably new. No older than twenty. 

“Everyone,” he says into the phone, and then he replaces it in the holder, eyes wide. He points to them, “uh,” he reaches at his hip, like he has to check his holster to ensure his weapon is there. “Wait here.” He licks his lips, looks quickly around, as though unsure what he is looking for. “It’ll be okay. Just, uh…” he starts to walk out. “Stay here.” 

And then he takes off, running down the hall they’d just come from. 

Temari looks over and lifts her shoulders. 

Easy. 

Tenten shakes her head. 

And then, just as smoothly, they turn around and walk out the front doors, holding dozens of files between them, and slip into the waiting car they’d come out of just over twenty minutes earlier. 

* * *

“It’s been a long time,” Tenten says, as she puts the car in park, “since I’ve done anything like that.” She reaches down for the lever and then reclines the driver’s seat, leaning back until she is almost lying down, but not so far that she can’t see out the front window. 

Temari looks over, her elbow resting on the small lip of the door against the window, chin in her hand. 

“I used to break into places all the time,” Tenten smiles, as though fondly reminiscing. “You know, wear black, rappel, the whole thing.” 

Temari hadn’t. Twice or three times maybe, but not enough to consider it any sort of staple assignment. She hadn’t been trained much in that. It’s easy to imagine a teenage Tenten though, dressed all in black, scaling the side of a building. 

“This isn’t quite the same, is it?”

Tenten lips fall, slightly. “No, not at all.” 

They’d taken off their disguises as they drove, putting them away in bags and wiping off as much makeup as possible with the wipes Tenten carried. 

“Do you miss it?”

“Yes.” The answer is so quick, Temari is surprised by it. 

Tenten sighs and blinks up at the ceiling of the car, as though thinking about it some more now that she’s already answered. 

“I was never suave. Or tactful when with others. Before this, I liked getting my hands dirty. Not my mind.” 

Temari looks away. A part of her wants to ask more. Ask why Tenten took the job, though she knows, if offered it, there isn’t _really_ an option. Not because you cannot say no — there is no punishment or demotion in saying No — but because it is a privilege, a compliment of the highest order, to say yes.

So even if Tenten’s real excitement didn’t lie in espionage, she is sure Tenten wanted this job. Wants it for the same reasons Temari does. It is important. Anyone can dress up and crawl through ceiling vents. This is an honor. A bigger sacrifice than others are asked to perform.

Still though, she isn’t sure why Tenten would be asked to do something like if she wasn’t in training for it. Temari had prepared for something like this for years. Shikamaru, even if he preferred sitting in an office, breaking long strings of numbers into meaningful content, had been long trained for this specific job. It’s the department they’d been in. Temari doesn’t know much about Konoha or how it works, but there is no question — even if Tenten is more partial to using other skills and other means, that she has, in the end, volunteered for this. And she has been here, doing it, for years. 

“It can be hard,” Temari says finally, unsure how much she wants to offer. Unsure how much she can. Right now, Tenten knows much more about the toll of this life than Temari. “Playing housewife.”

Tenten laughs in agreement, but doesn’t say anything more on it. 

There is a pause then. A long, slow few minutes before either of them speaks again. 

“The men should be here soon.” Temari says, eventually, just to say something. 

“We’ve known Hinoto a long time.” 

It comes out of nowhere and Temari, who is now leaning her head against the cold window, straightens and looks over. 

“She was your handler?”

She remembers when they met at Tenten’s warehouse and Hinoto was sitting there, having tea. Sitting like she’d been there a long time, sitting there like she’d known them. 

“No.” Tenten says. “Years ago, before she was a handler, before we were here, she and Neji had done a job together. It was a team, so they weren’t close. They weren’t friends. Didn’t even speak, as far as I know. And then a few years ago, one morning, we saw her in the city.”

Temari takes a deep breath. When it comes down to it, she knows nothing about Hinoto. Hinoto knows her entire daily itinerary, for the most part, but Temari doesn’t even know where she lives or who she speaks with or how long she has been here or if she runs others besides her and Shikamaru. 

“Only time I’ve ever met her. But you know what it’s like.” Tenten glances over. “Some things transcend others.” 

Temari doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to talk about Hinoto. She doesn’t know anything because she isn’t supposed to. It’s protocol. For safety reasons. For both of them. Temari doesn’t lay back against the window again though, a move that would categorically shut down the conversation, but instead turns to look out ahead of them at the dark and empty parking lot. 

“I wanted to tell you,” Tenten continues, “because the next time I saw her was just over two months ago.” 

The heat is blasting in the car and Temari feels it drying out her skin. 

“She went out of protocol to ask us to follow your mark. To watch you.” 

Temari has wondered what Tenten is intending, but she isn’t expecting that. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she thinks back to the bar, to the car ride, to walking down the cement with loud steps knowing Shikamaru was listening to her. She remembers sitting back, cold, bloody, being knocked side to side as he sped around sharp corners. She remembers the absent sound of the gunshot before realizing she’d been hit. 

“You were there?”

She turns again to look at Tenten, to watch her answer. 

“Not officially.” Tenten takes a long breath, eyes still on the ceiling. “Not as far as Konoha is concerned.” She sighs. Temari thinks of Hinoto. She thinks of how angry Shikamaru is, still. “I just wanted to let you know,” Tenten says. “But yes, we saw it happen.”

It was before they’d met. She tries to imagine the cars, the schematics of the blocks. They must have been close, but she hadn’t seen anyone. It’s not a good sign, on her end. Yet she can practically imagine them in the car. She can imagine it from their viewpoint, as though from another angle, a third party — the actions, the illustration, of the moment she and Shikamaru had botched their first assignment in Kiri. 

Temari says nothing. She has never blamed Hinoto when it comes down to it. Shikamaru doesn’t blame Hinoto either, not really, she thinks. But they’ve never really spoken about it. Still, she’s always imagined he thinks that Hinoto should have stopped it, should have refused the job and taken care of her agents. Shikamaru doesn’t think Hinoto gave them a bad job purposefully, she supposes, but that Hinoto should have stopped the bad job from coming. She was the one in charge of them. It is her orders, until they were told otherwise, that they follow. 

This doesn’t change much. Or maybe it does. It doesn’t seem like Neji and Tenten were there to help them as much as to ensure the job went through. Or not. It’s not clear. Maybe Tenten doesn’t know either. She isn’t sure whether it matters, in the end. It’s done with. The job was completed. Her scar is nothing more than that: a scar. It’s not a big deal. 

There is a sound and Tenten sits up, adjusting her seat. In the side mirror, Temari can see headlights. The car pulls up parallel with them. 

“What took you so long?” Tenten asks as she gets out, any conversation they may have continued promptly cut off. 

It’s freezing outside and Temari has to brace herself, steel her inhales, as she closes the passenger door of the car. 

“There was a guard in the parking lot,” Neji says, walking around to the trunk of his car and taking out a new license plate. “The call came in on the radio before we could pass him.” Neji squats down to change the government plate to another one. 

Shikamaru is still in the driver’s seat, not getting out.

Temari, standing outside the other car, looks over at Tenten. 

“How bad?”

Neji stands, slips a screwdriver into his coat pocket, the government plate in his gloved hand. “Guard ’s fine. He hit the pavement pretty hard, so I wasn’t sure, but they were close enough behind that we could hear them call it in.” 

As he’s talking, Shikamaru finally comes out of the car. There is a cut on his lip from where he must have gotten hit. 

“You?” Neji asks, not stopping as he goes to put the plate in the backseat and then take the two coats Tenten and Temari had worn out of the office and tossed back there. 

“No problems,” Temari answers. She looks over the length of both cars to try to catch Shikamaru’s eyes, but he isn’t looking at her. “No one noticed us leave.”

Neji delivers the coats to the backseat of the other car. 

There is a pause after he shuts the car door. There may be more to say, but it’s late and it’s best to discuss anything else that may bear discussion at another point. 

“Let’s get out of here.” Tenten says, after a beat. “If you’re all set?” 

Shikamaru looks at Temari now, raising his chin, as though to check. 

She nods. Swallows. It’s been just shy of two minutes out of the car, maybe, and her cheeks, her temples, are already numb in the cold. She walks around the front of the first car to the second.

“Well,” Tenten says as she passes. “That was fun.” 

It was. Kind of. 

“Good to see you two,” Temari says as she comes around the passenger side. She is only half-surprised to find she really means it. She pauses at the door. Shikamaru glances past her, assumingly at Neji, and makes a face she can’t understand, and then the moment passes and, behind her, two car doors close. 

“Temari,” Shikamaru says, refocusing on her, elbows resting on the roof of the car. “Will you drive?” 

* * *

They’re only a few minutes away when Shikamaru groans as he shifts his position in the seat. 

She glances over, then back to the street, and then back to him. Temari reaches a hand out, trying to tilt him forward so she can get an eye on it, but he bats her hand away. She grips the steering wheel, holding it steady as she keeps her attention mostly on him and not on the road.

She knows immediately what has happened. She can see it in the way he holds himself: hesitant, careful in his shoulders. 

“How bad is it?”

“Just a cut.”

She reaches out again, and he doesn’t stop her this time, but she goes for his chin instead and turns his head to her, looking at the cut on the side of his mouth. He is still in disguise and some of the blood from his cut lip is on the facial hair he is wearing. 

It’s only a second, and then Shikamaru pulls his face back from her hold. “Guy threw himself at me and I fell against the hood ornament of a car.” 

Temari swallows and puts both hands back on the wheel. “Did you leave any blood?”

“Neji took the ornament.” 

“Fuck.” Okay, she thinks. No big deal. Probably not a problem at all. More painful than detrimental. 

He isn’t bleeding much. Not through the coat, as far as she can see. It’s likely nothing to worry about. They have a basic first aid kit in the car, and they’re only another half hour from the drop point at the hotel. 

“Did you find much?” She asks instead, after a moment. 

He shifts back again, clenching his jaw. “Not on the outset,” he mutters, not seeming to pay much attention. And then, dramatically, he sighs and leans back against the seat, tilting his head against the rest. “Do you ever wonder what they are?” He asks, softly, as though mostly to himself. 

She isn’t sure what he is asking on. Who, or what, is _they_? The people in the office? The documents? Neji and Tenten? 

She doesn’t look at him though, or ask more, satisfied in just watching him out of the corner of her eye, dark in the late night light. 

“Or what we’re doing?” He asks. 

Temari frowns, gaze glued ahead of her. He doesn’t know what he is saying. Neither does she. And if she does, she doesn’t like it. _Soft_ , she thinks, the word already forming itself, silently, on her tongue. She won’t say anything. And maybe it’s no matter, because he says nothing more either. 

* * *

She hasn’t even turned to lock the door behind her before Shikamaru is dropping their suitcase on the floor and stripping down. He leaves his coat by the suitcase and then, as he walks, pulls his sweater over his head on his way to the bathroom at the other end of their small hotel room. 

Wordlessly, taking off her coat and folding it to hang over the back of the chair by the door, Temari takes her bag and follows him, picking up his clothes as he sheds them and depositing them on the bed. 

It smells musty in here. She bends down, balancing her hand at the foot of the bed as she slips off her shoes. He turns on the light in the bathroom. It’s not a florescent as she’d been hoping, not as bright as bathroom lights usually are. If need be though, she has a small flashlight in her bag.

In the light coming out of the bathroom, the only one on in the hotel room, she watches as he reaches for the hem of his turtleneck, his back to her, and pulls it off, slowly. It gets caught on his ponytail, so he pulls that out too. His skin, she sees as the shirt raises, is so white, whiter than it was when they met. And then, as the shirt is finally over his head, she sees the wound. It’s large and red and swollen, taking up a wide circle between his shoulder blades, with a smaller, dark puncture wound right in the middle. It looks less than two inches from his spinal cord, which may have withstood the stab of the ornament, or may have been much, much worse. 

Shikamaru turns on a second bathroom light once his shirt is all the way off and tossed onto the lid of the toilet seat. There must be a bulb above the door on a different switch that she can’t see. It’s brighter now, the wound redder. He turns in the mirror to try to see it over his shoulder, brushing his hair over onto one side for a more unobstructed view. 

“It’s bleeding a lot less than I thought it would.” He says, strained as he cranes his neck. 

It isn’t bleeding much now, and most of what is around it is dried blood. But it looks deeper than she’d expected, deeper than she wants it to be.

Temari comes into the bathroom and directs him to turn back to face the mirror so she can step in behind and take a closer look. It _is_ much deeper than she wants, but it really isn’t bleeding much, and, as she’d thought, it will be more painful than the actual extent of harm it will do to his body, if those two things are comparable. She rolls up the sleeves of her own sweater and leans in, fingers careful as she brings them up to his skin. It’s been a long time since she has seen him shirtless, and even longer, if ever, since she has touched a part of his skin that is not regularly visible. 

Shikamaru inhales when her fingers touch the outside of the wound, on the swell of the bruise around it. His skin is hot from the rush of blood, hot, as though feverish, against her fingertips. Gently, knowing he’ll brace against it, knowing it’s minor in the scheme of things (minor in comparison to the last time one of them was shirtless and bloody in a bathroom with the other), she uses both hands to pull the skin wider to try to see how deep it is. 

He inhales sharply, hands tight on the sink, but he doesn’t protest. It doesn’t give her much more of an idea, and almost as soon as she irritates the area, he starts bleeding again. 

Temari steps back and sighs, reaching out to swipe at the long drip of blood with her thumb. He’s too tall for her to get at it comfortably. 

“Sit down,” she instructs, and then goes to grab the first aid kit. When she comes back, he has positioned himself on top of the closed toilet seat, his discarded shirt now over his knees, and he has pulled his hair back up in a tie. 

She opens the kit on the counter and hands him a general painkiller, which he takes dry as she washes her hands. Temari bends to wipe away the blood, again, which has now dripped, slowly, down his entire back. Then she carefully cleans out the cut, blotting at the wound with the cotton balls and the mini bottle of peroxide they carry, as Shikamaru hunches over, giving her better access.

“Hows your face?” She asks, mostly to make conversation, and she watches his shoulders, his ribs, the way his pale skin curves and dips as it covers his bones, as he exhales. 

“Bit my tongue.”

“Hm.” With another cotton ball, she dabs on mercurochrome for good measure, which stains his skin uglier, and then reaches for the tube of antibiotic cream. He doesn’t need stitches or anything, but she’d like some better bandages than they have. Something like a butterfly or Steri to hold it closed. 

He’s silent for another minute, letting her carefully spread the ointment over the area, beginning on the outside, and then moving in. Then, once her fingers are touching the wound itself, he reaches out one arm to press his hand against the wall. He’s not gripping anything, but pressing, though she figures it is achieving the same purpose. 

“Temari,” he says, low, like he is gritting it out, even though he isn’t making any other noise or doing anything else to show he is pain. 

She blinks and looks up, looks at the back of his head and the rim of his ear. She looks further, to his hand, the clear shove of it, the energy in his knuckles, as he presses into the plaster. And then, she gently prods her pointer, covered with antibacterial ointment, into his wound. 

“I’m glad I’m here with you,” he continues, gruff and strained, pain between the syllables. 

He’s only saying it as a distraction, she knows. Like he said things to her last time. 

She’s never actually seen him in any real physical pain, but he is remarkably quiet for what she is doing to him. His shoulder is all muscle, his skin smooth, almost without blemish in totality, not another scar or even a freckle.

Still, even though it’s a distraction, even as the smell of the chemicals on her hand and the scent of the shitty hotel bathroom overwhelm her, she finds her breath coming in quicker. Her hands are still against him, her finger inside him. She’s warm, down in her gut, in her lungs, like tendrils wrapping underneath her ribcage, doing nothing but making her want. 

Absently, an image comes to her: of months ago, in their bedroom, when she wanted to put her finger into a hole in his body and _press_ to elicit his pain, to feel his warm blood under her nail. That’s nothing like what she is feeling now.

He has no idea what he is saying or the way it is sounding to her. She knows, because otherwise, he wouldn’t say it. He doesn’t intend this. He’s simply making conversation, simply comforting her during this task. Or maybe reassuring her, as though she is a child, and is jealous of these other people from Konoha who will, in so many ways, always be closer to him than she is. 

As though now, in having met Tenten, who has never been anything but kind (much kinder, much more easy going, much _nicer_ than Temari), Temari feels threatened, feels jealous. Or maybe he imagines that she finds Neji, who hardly speaks and gets to live on his own for so many months and can sit on a couch and enjoy an easy tumbler of whiskey and reminisce about his homeland, a more desired companion by Shikamaru in this unnatural situation. Maybe he is trying to quell her from that line of thought, even though she hasn’t thought it much in the first place. Not really. Only in passing. 

But most likely he is just speaking to speak, saying something out of the ordinary to distract himself from the stabbing pain in his back. 

Temari swallows. When she exhales, it is shaky, and she hates that, in the silent bathroom, he can hear it. 

Slowly, Temari pulls her hands, one in his wound, the other braced against his shoulder, away from him. 

“When we first met,” Shikamaru continues, as if in response to her nervousness, his palm still pressed flat to the drywall. “I,” he tenses his shoulders as the finger inside his body pulls out, and she watches his clavicles raise and then fall. “I was so scared. And you were —

“I know,” she finds herself saying, though she isn’t sure what it is she knows. “I know.”

This comment takes Temari out from whatever she was otherwise thinking. His shoulders look wide now, they look strong and reliable this close up. But the image of him, that picture, when they first met…. That pulls something different. He’d looked so young, fragile, in his nice clothes and his downcast eyes. 

That seems like it was so long ago. They’ve come so far since then. 

Temari reaches back into the kit and pulls out an adhesive to try to pull the wound, even just a bit, closed. 

His skin is still hot. And it burns her fingers. It burns her chest. Her heart is beating faster as she finds the gauze and places it over the plaster, taping it down in a square against his back. 

Shikamaru says nothing more until she is done and has finished taping down the bandage. And then, even as she puts down the roll of medical tape, even though he surely knows what is going on, surely knows she is done fixing him up, he doesn’t move, holding still before her. 

She is glad she can’t see his face. Glad, maybe, that he can’t see hers. 

Her mouth is dry. Even her teeth ache. She feels it everywhere. She is almost shaking when she does eventually lift her hand, standing fully up now, tall behind him, and brings her fingers up near the back of his neck. 

She touches him there, right below his hair line, the tips of her fingers much softer, much less sure than when they were inside the bloody hole of his wound. Shikamaru doesn’t move. She sees the tense in his shoulders, the holding of his breath; but he stays where he is, letting her touch him. And then, with nothing more than a brush, not even quite a touch, she moves them down a few inches to the top knobs of his spine, running two fingers over the bones, not far from the edge of the gauze. 

“Turn around,” she breathes, only a whisper that would normally have gone unheard had the room not been so tensely waiting on a noise, waiting on a decision. 

Temari pulls away, but her hand hovers, still lifted, in the air. 

Carefully, shoulders moving heavily with each long breath, Shikamaru turns, knees coming around so that, if she steps closer, she’ll be between them; his chest, his tummy; his bellybutton all visible as he faces her, sitting down before her, shoulders hunched and head tilted to look into her eyes. 

He’s done a poor job of tying his hair back and long strands fall around his face.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, when their eyes meet, “for you to stop thinking of me as the enemy.”

Temari reaches out to touch the corner of his mouth, right where it is cut, just slightly, from the punch that supposedly wielded him backward into the car. Her fingers still have some ointment on them, but it isn’t enough to justify feeling the wound. 

He doesn’t react, but she is sure it stings. 

It has been so long since anyone has touched her in any real way. And, she thinks, watching him, feeling the heat of him, she has been wanting to touch him for so long. And he is looking at her with his dark eyes like, maybe, he wants her to touch him too. 

But it’s probably the pain. And a trick of the light. How could it be anything else?

Temari pulls back, looks up. She flexes her hand by her side. 

“You’re my husband,” she says, but she doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t think anything else. They’re not friends. They’re not lovers. They’re allies, and even then.… 

Shikamaru puts his shirt back on, groaning when he lifts his arms. 

Temari watches, observing his slowness, the furrow of pain in his brow, as he puts on his clothes. A waste, probably, unless he plans to wear it to bed, but she doesn’t mention this. 

When he is done, when he is all covered and well again, Temari sighs and leans back against the wall. Whatever she was doing, whatever she was thinking — it’s stupid. She is usually in control, especially when it comes to things like desire (if this is even what that was). And she has no idea what this is or what she wants. 

“Would you like a drink, before bed?” She asks. Normally she’d avoid any kind of mini-bar. Usually they wouldn’t even have one in this type of low-budget hotel. But there it is, and she thinks some sort of liquor might make it easier for him to sleep. May make it easier for her too. 

Shikamaru glances up at her. His eyes, if they’d looked different earlier, don’t look any different than usual now. He’s tired. So is she. She is so, _so_ tired. Tired of so much, for so long. 

“Okay,” Temari says, answering her own question. And then she pushes off the wall and pads, barefoot, over to the small fridge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for reading! i hope you're enjoying!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thank you to carol and em. i owe you guys!

When school starts up again, Shikamaru isn’t prepared for the amount of work he’s given. Neither of them, and apparently no one in his program, are expecting an onslaught of assignments so early in the semester. So during the first few weeks, she goes on every job Hinoto assigns by herself because he is so busy. 

The beginning of the school semester is easier for Temari. She goes to work, finishes at five, and then is completely done until the next morning. Shikamaru is rarely home — he seems to spend most of his time in the library with some classmates, though she isn’t sure about that — and when he is at the house, he’s usually either sleeping or locked in the office. So Temari spends many of those early weeks on her own. 

She finally starts to clean out the second office on the second floor, which they otherwise never go into because it’s mostly just filled with empty boxes and little things she doesn’t know what to do with, and that’s her only project. She cuts her hair (it’s gotten much too long). She watches tv. She plays shogi on her own.

Usually, she prefers to be busier. It’s best when she is a little stressed, best when she has something to worry about and something, other than her home life, to occupy her thoughts. She’d prefer more work now, but it definitely hasn’t been as bad as it could be — with the office and the labs, there are still _some_ things to keep her busy. It’s always much, much worse when she has nothing to do and then she begins to think. So she occupies herself now; finds projects and completes them on her own. 

Eventually, Shikamaru’s back heals (though the scab comes off a few times prematurely — enough that the scar will be worse than it would have been). She drinks too much hot chocolate. He still doesn’t sleep enough. 

They do spend more time together though, in a way. Maybe less temporally, but more substantively. He’s in the house much, much less, sure, but when he is there, and he doesn’t have other pressing obligations, instead of staying in separate rooms, often even separate floors, they’ll spend time in each other’s company. It didn’t used to be that way. Now, if she is watching tv, he will come sit with her on the couch or on the floor beside it. She likes to stay in the kitchen if he is cooking, and sometimes, even when she is downstairs doing something, he’ll purposefully come and do his work on the dining table instead of in the office. 

He’s mostly gone though. Work, for her, is perfunctory right now, so there isn’t anything particularly interesting going on in her life. All in all, it isn’t good, but it definitely isn’t bad either.

* * *

She can hear his knees knocking against the center console as he slides forward, the sound of fabric shifting with the press of his elbow into the top of the passenger seat, right above her shoulder. 

“That’s not going to work,” he argues, sharply. He speaks to Hinoto sharper than he talks to anyone else, even to her. “It’s much too close to Temari.”

Temari bites the leather around her hand, elbow against the window and gaze out at the edge of the water. It’s not snowing and it’s not going to, but the wind is harsh. She can hear the ocean, even over the hum of the car’s radiator, as the waves beat against the docks they’re parked near. It’s so cold out that, at this point, she wishes it would snow. Then at least there would be something to show for the temperature. Instead it’s been mostly sunny during the days, like it is only in the peaks of summer, but at the same time, it has been horrifically, almost violently, cold. Going outside, even in the simple walk from the car to the front door, is exhausting. 

She’s thinking about this, tuning into the sound of the water, instead of concentrating on the conversation. She knows everything Shikamaru is going to say. She knows what Hinoto will say. She knows the conclusion of this, and knows that if she is aware of it, then Shikamaru, who is always steps ahead, is as well. She isn’t sure why he is even rallying to argue in the first place. He so rarely rallies for anything. 

She hears the noise of the engine turning off and Hinoto shifting, probably to ease her foot off the break, as though she is settling in to discuss further. 

It’s not as though Temari is content in not arguing it further. She is furious. So furious, she has to choke down on the words lest she say something she doesn’t mean. And that’s right now, after she’d already yelled about it for ten minutes.

This is stupid. Stupid. 

She is biting hard enough at her glove that she is bruising the knuckle beneath. 

“You’re in the perfect position for it,” Hinoto says, faux-patiently, knowing it’s unsatisfactory. “Her coworkers know who you are and they trust Temari’s work and intentions as a legitimate employee. They trust _her_. We don’t want to arouse her suspicions or draw attention to you in any way.”

“That _will_ arouse suspicion. Send someone else. Someone who fits the category and whose cover will not be broken.”

Hinoto sighs, long, exasperated. “Shikamaru,” she tries, as if hoping he’ll let it go. 

In such close quarters, especially now that the engine is turned off and there is no air coming in or out, she can smell Shikamaru’s soap and the scent of what she assumes is detergent from Hinoto. 

“It’s too close,” Temari says, turning, repeating what she has already been saying. “My team is small. We don’t talk, but she knows who I am. She sees me every day. How can I be respected, or move up, if she is carrying on with my husband? We’ve hardly been married. And by the end, they’ll probably all know. My colleagues, my bosses. And when _will_ it end? She’s too valuable.”

It will be years. Absolute years. Even if her boss takes other young men, even if she has many lovers, which she surely will, she surely does, it will still last as long as possible. She won’t lose her status easily and Shikamaru will have to milk his proximity for as long as feasible. 

“It’ll break cover.” He continues as soon as she stops talking. “Our cover is to have a happy relationship — to be boring, regular, middle-class civilians. We’ve created, _cultivated_ , this appearance of a normal marriage. Hinoto,” he presses his elbows deeper into the headrests of either front seat, leaning in. “Using that imagine to initiate this assignment will only hurt us in the long run.” 

Hinoto sighs like she wants to roll her eyes. Her hair is pulled back, her earrings match her lipstick. She keeps her face neutral though. “This is why Temari is there.”

“If you put us here for this, you should have just sent him.” Temari stops short. She’s been thinking this since Hinoto broached the subject. She’s always figured she was there for Kazue Wagarashi. She’s known it since her first day of work. She’s also been told — only once and in passing — that Wagarashi (now Kazue Haishi) was widowed, but liked to keep company with younger men. So, she’s wondered, before this, why not place a young man here? If they want eyes on Haishi and she is partial to casual bed partners, why not assign one? 

If they want someone like this — a subordinate colleague — then why not send an individual? A shorter-term assignment. Someone not married. 

“She has a history of specifically going for married partners.” Hinoto says, understanding Temari’s suggestion. “It’s been determined, over time, that the most favorable solution is to have an employee’s spouse. At a distance, but present for long enough to not be a one-time thing.”

“So Temari is meant to continue on for the next decade as a happy wife while I, as her husband, continue an affair with one woman who only knows me _as_ a husband? Does Suna not see the flaws here?”

Temari’s throat hurts, her head is spinning. This sort of job seems to defeat the purpose in maintaining a cover. There is a reason they wear disguises when they work, even when their entire lives in Kiri are fabricated.

“She won’t fall in love with you.” Hinoto replies. “It’s not your job to make her.”

There is a pause. No one speaks. Maybe there is nothing more to say. Hinoto has made it clear that this assignment hasn’t been casually generated. It was in the making likely before Temari was ever chosen for the role of cuckqueaned wife. 

Though the dossier had never explained _this_. 

It’s getting cooler in the car without the heat running. Her coat, and the layers beneath it, are enough, but she is bulky and uncomfortable and not at all warm against the February winds. 

“It’s too close to home.” Shikamaru repeats, after a while, as though he simply wants to create a record of his objection. “We’ve been set up only to blow through the cover.” He leans back then, sliding further into the back seat, knees no longer against the console. “It’s the same thing as before — they can’t keep their message consistent with what they’re asking.”

“You’ll do well.” Hinoto says. “It’ll be long, but you can run her in your sleep.”

As though that’s it and the conversation has come to a natural end — perhaps it has — Shikamaru moves to one side and opens the door, closing it hard behind him. 

Temari follows, not stopping to say anything in parting to Hinoto. 

Shikamaru is walking away from Hinoto’s car and across the street over to theirs by the time she even makes it out. 

It’s too cold to stay outside. Too cold to do much of anything, if there were anything she wanted to do. She wants to be home. Back at her house, where she can forget things. Back in Suna, where she can be happy. Back in Suna, where he isn’t around.

“It’s not our job to question them,” he says, as she slips into the passenger seat of their car. “I know.”

He says it as though he is imitating her, as though this is what he expects her to say. 

“But this— there are so many ways it can go wrong. Come on, Temari, won’t you agree with me for once?”

He doesn’t look at her as he says it. He doesn’t even start the car, even though she can see her breath in the dark, even though her cheeks are numb from the walk outside, even though Hinoto has driven away. 

“I’m not going to disagree with you.” She says, slowly. Does she really disagree with him that often? Sure, they don’t see eye-to-eye on many minor things, but is it really frequent enough that her expressing a contrary opinion is his first instinct? She turns to look at him, though it’s dark and his features are fuzzy. “This is minor in comparison to the dozens of jobs we won’t be able to complete now while you’re seeing her. I don’t think we even know _what_ she is doing, if anything. I know this is our purpose, but it makes it feels like the rest, like everything else we’ve done to get to this point, has been a waste.”

She means it. She feels it in her gut, like she has been waiting to articulate it, but couldn’t quite figure out what she was meaning to say. 

Shikamaru doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t suppose she was looking for him to anyway. 

* * *

“Mrs. Nara,” the man says as soon as she steps off the elevator. “I was just about to call up. Your husband is waiting for you in the lobby.”

“Oh.” Temari blinks, frowns. “Huh.”

“We’ll be a few minutes,” one her coworkers tells her, “if you need to talk to him.”

There’s no offer of inviting Shikamaru, no consideration of letting her go off with him. This is a work lunch, one that had been scheduled after talk about how the pressures of confidentiality can affect people. It can be hard to keep the details of your work to yourself, to keep it quiet from your spouse and your children and your friends, but usually, there is some camaraderie in the workplace to fill the void of meaningful connection. There isn’t much of that here. Temari has had one office-wide holiday party, but other than that, there has never been any real relationships formed within her team, much less on her floor or within her department.

Or so they say — she personally has grown close to Haku and Ruka, but she doesn’t argue with the general sentiment. And the theory worked in her favor, as she needed to set up a meet. 

It’s been difficult to find a time for them to see each other when there is such a discrepancy between schedules and obligations and in hierarchies. But organizing this only took her a casual comment or two to the right people, and within three days, a team-wide memo was issued scheduling a group lunch. She was even surprised to see at least half a dozen names from people she hadn’t even realized she was meant to be working with — that is the extent of the separation of parties before this. 

Temari walks ahead of the group, turning the corner to find Shikamaru in the front entrance. He has no security clearance (even hers is only minor) to venture to the higher floors of the building. 

He’s idling by one of the windows, looking out on the late February day, hands shoved into his coat pockets and hair pulled back. He looks handsome, but younger than usual, with his hair up higher, his face freshly shaven, and in the way he holds his shoulders. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she says, as soon as she approaches. “Is anything wrong?”

He turns, shifting his weight. “No,” he says, smiling, like he is happy to see her, like he is happy to have surprised her. “Not at all.” His gaze, for only a moment, moves past her. 

“I’m so sorry. We have a work thing.”

Kazue Haishi should be in the lobby. She and two others had gone down a few minutes before. They were all still waiting on the head of the labs to make his appearance so they could leave. 

“Is she looking?” Temari whispers for only Shikamaru to hear. 

He looks down and rubs a hand on the back of his neck, as though disappointed. “Most are.”

“Interloper.” Temari leans closer. “I’m sorry you came all this way,” she says at a more normal volume. “Can we raincheck for later this week?”

Shikamaru steps in. “I’m free every day,” he says, genuinely and with only a hint of flirtation. He looks past her, over her head again, but this is less than a glance. His dark eyes focus on something. He has found her. He smiles then, differently, like he is a little caught off-guard. Like he has caught someone staring at him. Like he knows he is being evaluated. “Um, I—” he shoves his hands back into his pockets and looks down at Temari sheepishly. “Sorry to miss you now though.”

She raises her hands to his chest lightly as he, unsure, looks back up past Temari to meet, she guesses, Kazue Haishi’s gaze. He’s doing well. He always does well. 

“Good,” she says, but it’s low, and said close to him, said to him only, her hands flat near his shoulders, almost leaning fully onto her toes, weight tipped to him. “Keep looking at her just like that.”

Her words come as a surprise, though she has no clue why. She means them. She has often told him what to do (or told him what she _thinks_ he should do… he rarely actually does it), but it’s not usually like this. She knows she’s _said_ it incorrectly. Said it too intimately, too closely, too deeply. Her voice sounded like it should have been saying something else, something very different. It sounded like… like —

He’s taken aback too, eyes shooting back to Temari, confusion stitching his brow. 

She can feel the urge to push in, to push her hands harder against him until she can feel his heartbeat through the thick wool of his coat, but she pulls back, steps away. 

Shikamaru swallows, eyes dark on hers, and she feels it in a dull ache at the base of her skull. And then he glances at Haishi again, as if just catching her eye. As if he can’t stop. 

“You’re good,” she says, hands down by her sides now. 

“I know,” he leans in, kisses her on the cheek in casual parting, and then straightens. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He’s smirking at her. And then, with a quick hello to Ruka and Haku — the only two coworkers of hers that he knows — Shikamaru steps away, through the dozen or so people waiting around the lobby to go to lunch, and leaves out the front doors. 

Temari doesn’t have to glance back to know Kazue Haishi is watching him. 

* * *

She is staring out the window, standing against the wall, not quite fully hidden from view, but she won’t be seen unless someone knows to look for her. 

She’s looking down at the pavement, watching for movement. It’s grown more sporadic as time goes on, but the parking lot is never empty of exiting employees for more than five minutes. After all, it’s only seven pm on a Thursday — plenty of cars remain parked in the cold, dark night as people continue whatever work they’re doing inside the building. 

Temari is keeping her eye out for no reason. Seeing this is meaningless. She knows what will happen, what it will be like, what she will see. 

Still, she watches, until, eventually, a familiar car pulls up to the curb, and she can spot, from ten stories above the ground, Shikamaru get out and start heading to her office. He must have seen Haishi through the lobby window, getting ready to leave for the day. 

He is holding a small bag as he exits the car and, after a few seconds, she sees the top of Haishi’s head as the woman leaves for the night. It’s dark out, but the pavement is bathed in lamplight, well-lit for employees to walk in and out.

There is a pause as they come closer. It’s a coincidence, a regular situation in which one person brings dinner to his spouse at her office and, during such an exchange, sees another employee of the office. 

He won’t stop. It’s too soon for that. Instead, she sees them slow, and then, seemingly without a word, pass each other as one leaves and the other enters. They may have spoken, she can’t tell. They may have looked at each other more than she assumes, or perhaps less, but she doesn’t know from here. 

Temari can’t see much. It’s too late. She wants to go home. Work has been slow enough recently that now, having stayed just the extra two hours, she has done enough that tomorrow she will have free time and an inability to fill her hours with substantive assignments. 

It’s only another ten seconds before a phone starts to ring. It’s security calling up to let her know of Shikamaru’s arrival. She waits a few rings before moving away from the window, eyes on the now still lot, to answer it. 

* * *

Temari isn’t sure exactly what the impetus is. It’s not as though she is watching something in this vein or even thinking about anything related. There is no catalyst — specific or general — that she can pinpoint. But she tries. After the first moment (the realization, slow, deep inside her, that she wants something right now), she stops and tries to figure out why she wants this. What exactly is the harbinger of this arousal? 

She is watching some old cop show on tv. It’s one of those ones she hears mentioned a lot. A pop-culture darling that is popular enough to be universally accepted as an understood reference around Kiri, even though the show has long since ended. She’s interested in the stories, partially, and also doing her due diligence in understanding the locals. She knows enough of the show (the lead characters, the general plot) to carry her through references made, but she thinks it best to watch it herself. 

During the worst months of winter, she did a lot of this. She’s been catching up (if that’s the correct word) on beloved Kirigakure-media for the past few weeks and, if she is honest, she does feel like she understands some mentalities in a way she hadn’t before. 

It’s during this time, while one corrupt police officer is bullying a rookie into keeping quiet about planted evidence, that Temari recognizes the heat between her legs for what it is: desire. Not for the cops (she’s never been into handsome movie stars), but for something else. 

Shikamaru is gone. He’s out doing his second accidental-run-in with Kazue Haishi. She thinks it is at a coffee shop, but she isn’t too sure. They hadn’t spoken about it before he left. 

Temari sits up on the couch. It’s only mid-morning on a Saturday — not a traditionally arousing hour by any means. 

Yet here she is, feeling like all she has to do is move one hand down and it’d be only seconds before she comes. 

Temari swallows. Her mouth is dry. Her heart is pounding. Her breath is coming in quick. 

She swings her legs over the couch, planting her socked feet flat onto the hardwood floor, back rigid. She isn’t sure what she’s doing. She isn’t sure what she is really wanting to do, except that this, well, she kind of wants… this. 

She swallows again, breathing hard enough that her entire body is starting to warm up. She can feel it in the tips of her fingers, itchy to move, and in the squeeze of her gut and the flush at her neck. She imagines Shikamaru, though she doesn’t think it means much — after all, he’s the most present person in her life, and he’s attractive, and he’s, well, he’s… she bites her lips; takes a deep breath. 

She doesn’t mean this.

He sits on the couch like this, sits on the end, legs long and bent at the knee. She can practically feel the skin of his stomach beneath her fingers, the angle of his hip and the feeling of tugging up his shirt. 

She can imagine it well enough, she pictures him, kneeling before her on the floor, using his hands, the strength in his wrists, at her hips to pull them forward, closer to his mouth. She slides forward now, to the edge of the couch, and then leans back, shoulder blades hitting the back rest, bent, so she can see. She would watch, after all. And she can picture it, she can imagine him: the way he’d look, the intensity that would be behind his eyes, the heaviness of his lashes casting shadow on his cheeks as he focuses in on his task. 

Temari lifts her legs to bring her feet to the lip of the coffee table. She breathes through her mouth, pants, like she has been running. She imagines his hands on her knees. They’re always so warm. They’d cover her knees, they’d burn right through her pants; he’d look at her, look down at her body, as he pushed her knees apart, opening her up, pressing her knees back until she is just pressing her toes to the coffee table, the lines sharp from her hip to her knee to the forced arch of her foot. 

She exhales, closes her eyes. He so rarely dedicates time to his work, but when he does, he knows how to focus with intention. He puts in his attention. And can see that now, can see the sweep of his fingers cradling her knees, the rise and fall of his chest as he leans down, leans in. He’d breathe, hot, right there. And she knows what she looks like, what she’d look like naked with her legs spread and her vagina wet. She knows what it feels like, what it _would_ feel like, to feel his breath against her. 

Temari isn’t actually touching herself. She is still fully clothed. 

Carefully, she brings one hand to her hip and the other to the middle of her stomach. She blinks, looks down, and still finds herself picturing him on his knees before her. 

She wants to know how Shikamaru would feel, wants to know how he’d taste her, how he’d approach her, and how quickly, it feels like, with simply with a press of his lips, it would take her to finish. She wants to watch him, wants to feel his fingers on her bare thigh, on her hips, on her pelvis, spreading her open, feeling nimbly inside her.

Temari arches back, makes a noise deep in the back of her throat, and squeezes her eyes closed. She is so wet and warm, and absently she realizes she isn’t wearing underwear and can actually easily slip off her pants right here on the living room couch. Her mind flits, picturing him eating her out to him touching himself down here on this very couch — she doesn’t know if he does (he must, right?) or when he does, considering they live and sleep together every night — but she imagines it now. What is he thinking of? Does he like doing this? Does he like the feeling of people quivering beneath him? 

She keeps one hand on her hip and moves the other over her breast to her neck. She is sweating and she hasn’t even touched anywhere meaningful. She pushes her hips closer to the edge of the couch. If he were here, if he were kneeling before her, she’d press her heel into the muscle of his back, she’d touch his hair, his neck, the rim of his ears. She’d say his name. 

She’s never really wanted anything like this. She’s pictured men before, she’s masturbated before, but she’s never had such an easily visceral image. She’s never gotten wet just from a momentary imagination in the middle of the day. 

Temari groans again, touches her jaw, nudging her head back like she imagines he might, pushes down into her hip just to bruise. She knows what it is like, vaguely, to kiss him. She’s done it once or twice. She imagines his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his exhale on her.

The door closes. 

Temari snaps her whole body up, slamming her feet onto the ground and turning her head wildly to the entryway. She hadn’t heard the car drive up, hadn’t heard the latch on the door. 

Shikamaru is standing there, in the flesh, his height and hair and the shape of his brow all exactly like she’d imagined, exactly like she knows. 

He is frowning at her as he takes off his scarf with one hand and hangs it on the hook by the door. 

She knows she is sweating, knows her face must be flushed, knows her shoulders are heaving and she is sitting there looking like she just got caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. She _was_. 

“You good?” He asks. It’s absent though, his concentration focused on taking off his coat, and in one hand he has a bag that advertises pastries. 

Temari swallows, throat tight, and straightens even more, crossing her legs. Her cop show is still on. 

“Fine,” she says, and so Shikamaru turns, not paying much attention, and goes to the kitchen. 

She lets out her breath as soon as he is out of the entryway. She hadn’t even been aware she was holding it to begin with. 

What was that?

She turns back to the tv, keeping her body tight, her spine rigid, every molecule at attention. 

_What was that?_ What was she thinking? She feels stupid, she feels wrong. She feels dirty. She feels unfair. She _is_ unfair. He’s not hers to want. She has to remember that. If she needs someone to satisfy this facet of life, she can find them. She doesn’t need to do this. She needs to stop it before she takes it too far. 

* * *

“I was surprised actually,” Kahyo says one evening while they’re at her house. “That you were advocating for no moves toward intervention.”

“Why?” It seems a popular view, especially among many of Shikamaru’s classmates, allegedly. 

“I thought the youth were always the most progressive.”

Shikamaru does his best to look interested. Beside him, Temari holds her breath. She’s known, surely, that Shikamaru has these conversations all the time (he must, at school and at work, right?) and is quite used to lying (they both are), but she also knows that he doesn’t want to push this with Kahyo, whom he quite likes. 

“I don’t think it’s unprogressive.” He twists the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “I don’t like war. I don’t agree with it at all.”

“So you’re a pacifist?” 

“Wanting peace isn’t necessarily pacifism,” he clarifies. “But, yes. I don’t think war is the answer. I dislike conflict.”

Kahyo doesn’t relent. It’s not cruel or rising in debate. She asks each question calmly, as though they’re just discussing inconsequential theories and not decisions that directly impact others. 

“There are people who need our help and we have the ability to help them. Why should we not?”

Shikamaru straightens in his chair as he thinks it over. “There are a few reasons,” he acknowledges. “For one, shouldn’t countries determine their own courses? It is not up to the Water to intervene in the conflicts of other nations.”

Kahyo glances over to Temari. “What do you think?”

“That we should protect our own country,” she says easily, as though she believes it. “Kiri should be concerned with Kiri. It’s imperialistic to think we should impart our views to the world.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t offer aid,” Shikamaru adds. He takes a sip of his glass. 

Kahyo leans back in her chair, looking at them fondly. “You two weren’t born yet when the wars in the west broke out.” The wind howls outside, but it’s warm inside the house. “We were all allies before that. We had these partnerships, these agreements with the Wind and the Earth, and so when the fighting broke out, we kept out of it. But we agreed with the Wind. The Fire and the rest. Their cause. We wanted them to win, but we did nothing about it. And places like Suna were decimated.”

Temari frowns. She knows the narrative. She knows the argument. She knows her role. 

“I know. But it’s complicated. I don’t know if staying neutral was the right idea. I’m not saying that. But now the war is over. These are civil disputes in other countries. It’s horrible what is happening, but maybe we should let them be? After all, our citizens, our country, our economy — they’re all strong, and safe, because we didn’t intervene in the first place.”

“Maybe,” Kahyo muses, “it is arrogant to think we should have a say?” She sighs, looking introspective. “I really don’t know the answer. But I think that, having the privilege we do, to prioritize our nationalism at the cost of humanitarian issues isn’t right.”

“I do think there needs to be more discussion about what aid we can send without sending Water citizens on the ground,” Shikamaru repeats. “At the root of it all, we really want peace. That’s why the Water Lands Alliance began: peace.” That’s the narrative here, she knows. That’s what they say. It’s how they justify their choices. “And if we can bring the power of that alliance to individuals in need, then we should.”

Kahyo smiles. “You didn’t put that in your article.”

“I was asked to only put down 750 words.”

Their host leans forward. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to get into a discussion about politics.” She runs her fingers along her table. “When I was your age, we were always marching. People were dying around the world. It was such a different time. I don’t know what the youth are doing. I work for a community organization that doesn’t operate outside of one neighborhood, so I’m not one to talk.”

There is a pause. Then Shikamaru also leans forward, palms on the table. “We should talk about it more. We all have a voice. It’s something that makes this city great.” Beside him, Temari crosses her legs, making noise when the heel of her shoes hits the chair leg, and listens to him act. “Next time that I’m assigned an op-ed to fill space during a slow cycle, I’ll discuss it with you before publishing. For your take.”

Temari bites her tongue. She hates this the most. 

* * *

Later that night, like she does sometimes before bed, or when she can’t sleep, or when she wakes up too early and the sun isn’t out yet, Temari sits on the kitchen counter near the sink where the window overlooks the front lawn. 

She sits here and leans her head back, cheekbone rested against the cabinets as she looks out at the sky, looking for something that will never be there. 

It’s not too late right now. A little past ten, and there is shuffling above her as Shikamaru meanders around the second floor. 

She squints, as though she might see a different sky before her. 

Lying, always, is the hardest. Pretending to be someone you’re not. Pretending to be funny or flirty or ditzy or whatever the situation calls for. It can be a thrill, but not for long, not when you’re pretending for the rest of your life. This — Temari Nara… it’s for so long. So long that she worries she may eventually, without even realizing it, become this person she is pretending to be. 

Still, despite all this, it’s not the lying about her name or her spouse or her career that is the hardest. It’s not the work of manipulation, of finding people at their most vulnerable and hurting them even more for her own cause, the corruption of looking at each person she meets and determining how they may or may not help her — no, it’s not that. It’s speaking legitimately about deep beliefs that she does not hold. 

It follows, of course: everything she does is for Suna, so to speak against her homeland in any way, even when it’s for a job — to vehemently articulate negative opinions toward an institution she has given her life to… that — it’s the worst. She hates it the most. 

At least she’s only a scientist. She isn’t out there voicing hard opinions or advocating against Suna. She’s meant to keep middle-ground thoughts, Shikamaru is meant to make arguments with feet on either side of the not-quite-definable line, in every sense and direction. They’re not very steadfast opinions, just considerations, really, and are not particularly controversial in their nature. Shikamaru’s op-eds, she thinks, are informative, but they’re not interested in influencing people except in the realm of reinforcing already-held beliefs, taking people from multiple sides and propping up opinions that are persuasive but never really _new_. He is a nice writer with a smart background who works to bolster the opinions that people in power already hold.

But still. It’s a struggle. It’s worse than the rest. And it’s harder with Kahyo too. She likes Kahyo. She can imagine Kahyo fifteen years ago as a student, protesting, fighting for the same causes Temari believes in. Except now, Temari is meant to say otherwise, to think differently, to not engage in politics and leave the intent political thinking to her husband. 

She’s lying back, eyes outside, when Shikamaru approaches. She hears him on the stairs, but is still surprised when he comes into the kitchen and waits for her attention. 

He never really comes down when she is by herself at night. He rarely interrupts her in the house, and usually, when she is down here on the counter, eyes out the window, he leaves her be. But he waits now, and she can tell he has leaned against the opposite counter, settling in to say something. 

“I’d never really seen the sky,” he says, “until I came to Suna. The sunset, that first night… it was unlike anything I’d ever seen.”

Temari turns her head. He is in his pajamas and has a toothbrush in one hand. 

He’s saying it, gaze soft, like he knows what she is looking at (what she is always looking for out this window and never seeing). 

She exhales. She isn’t sure why he is here. She never comes to the office when he is there. 

But she is also picturing his first night in Suna, picturing that night, as she’d waited outside her ex-boyfriend’s apartment, the air cool on her skin. She doesn’t remember what it feels like, really, except to remember the words she’d memorized at the time. She’d known it’d be her last night. And when she was thinking about that, looking at her own sky, he was looking at it too. 

“I read your column,” she says as he goes back to brushing his teeth. She doesn’t often read what he writes (what’s the point, when she knows it will only infuriate her, and when she knows he doesn’t care to write it either). 

“You did?” He says, jumbled around his toothbrush. 

“I do.” Temari blinks and rolls her shoulders back against the cabinet. “Sometimes.”

Shikamaru huffs and steps forward to the sink right beside her and spits out the toothpaste that has foamed in his mouth, then he steps back. 

She watches. She’s still wearing a dress, the buckle tight at her waist, but he looks comfortable and cool in his pajamas, and looking at him makes her feel overdressed. 

Temari has never had to lie to someone like that before. It’s a part of the job, she knows. But Kahyo is her friend. And this lie she finds more significant than others. It’s fine to lie about a pretend relationship or a made-up background, about a job or an interest, but this is different. It’s a deep thing. A personal thing. Something she cares about. 

“You’re more manipulative than assertive,” Temari continues, watching him continue to brush his teeth. “You write so that people from multiple sides who don’t have strong opinions can see your reason, support your foundation, and agree with you.”

Shikamaru blinks, head tilting as he considers what she’s said. After a moment, he steps forward again to spit. Then he turns on the tap to wash out his mouth and the toothpaste in the sink. His hair is down against his shoulders, and he pushes it behind his ears as he steps back, toothbrush between his fingers. 

“Things can always be seen from different sides,” he says, slowly, as though gauging her reaction in real time, even though he often seems to know what she is going to say before she does. 

“You don’t think one is wrong and one is right?”

He doesn’t say this slowly. He obviously knows his answer. 

“I think you make a choice,” he says, eyes looking down at her feet, still in stockings, her heels knocking against the cabinets below the counter. Then he looks up to meet her gaze, eyes dark. “You choose a country, yours or another one… or you choose a person, someone you care for, or something else. You choose one thing and you decide to make that thing more important than yourself, and that’s where your loyalty will lie. It’s not about _right_ or _wrong_.”

Too soft, she thinks, even though the words he is saying are logical and sterile on the outset. A weak justification. She thinks of his hands and his shoulders and the way his eyes are piercing hers. She thinks of how strong he is, and yet, how weak he is when his logical explanations are underlaid by his emotion, his willingness to be sympathetic to those who don’t deserve it.

“One hurts people.” 

Shikamaru exhales and turns his gaze away from her again. She wonders, when he looks at her here, what is he seeing — his partner? His friend? His comrade?

“Every decision hurts people,” he says, and from the way he is looking past her, she can tell he is looking up at the sky and imagining Suna. Or maybe he isn’t. “For one to win, another must lose.”

“Being amoral is overly-philosophical and not realistic. There is a tangible right and wrong.”

“Short-sighted,” he says, and she bristles against the cabinet, eyeing him even as he looks away from her. 

There is a pause when she doesn’t respond — she won’t rise up to it, even though it is clear he wants her to. It’s unusual for him to bait her, but she won’t give into it. She doesn’t want to engage him. 

“We can use Kahyo.” She says instead when he doesn’t make any move to go upstairs. 

Shikamaru sighs and looks back to her. She remembers, once, when he held her in this position in anger, boxing her in one night against the cabinets until she pushed away. “You’re just saying that because you want her to think you’re a good person.”

“You play it too safe. She is in a good position in the community.”

“Too close.”

“Is anything?” She means Kazue Haishi. 

Shikamaru doesn’t like her name being brought up. Temari has noticed this in the times she’s asked on it. She isn’t sure why — mostly, she guesses, because he hates the idea of working a mark so close to Temari’s cover identity, but she isn’t sure. She doesn’t know what the two have discussed away from her. She doesn’t know how Shikamaru feels about Haishi. The woman is accomplished and attractive, maybe he actually likes her. Temari wouldn’t know. 

He looks annoyed. Temari likes it. 

“If you want to,” he responds after a moment, short. “Talk to Hinoto.”

* * *

Temari doesn’t look out the window of her office this time. It’s been three weeks to the day since Shikamaru brought her dinner under the guise of seeing Kazue Haishi and he is trying again tonight. 

All she knows is that it’s going well; that Shikamaru isn’t worried about the job itself, only the associated risks and consequences.

She swivels around in the chair at her desk in her little cubicle in a long line of desks down the room. He will be waiting outside right now. Perhaps he has brought her food again, or he is just going to take her home. She doesn’t want to see him though. She’s not in the mood tonight. She would rather take the bus. 

The overhead lights are off, but her desk light remains on, illuminating charts that she is too distracted to begin to make sense of. 

Temari can imagine it. She knows what she would do, if she were him. 

I actually was hoping to see you. I’ve been coming on Thursdays, at this time, he may say when he bumped into Haishi outside on the curb. He will be shy, uncomfortable, will be saying something he knows he shouldn’t. 

I was out of town for a few weeks, Haishi will say, didn’t your wife tell you?

Well, he will rub his hand against his neck, I, um, he will stutter, his eyes downcast and cheeks flushed, I didn’t ask her. She doesn’t know I’m here.

Or maybe they won’t say any of that. Maybe they won’t speak. Maybe they have spoken and he has already made his intentions clear. Maybe she has made hers clear as well. Temari doesn’t know. He hasn’t told her. 

It could be happening right now — he could be seducing another woman a few floors down while she waits patiently at work. 

It’s not _seducing another woman_ — it’s not as though he has ever seduced Temari. It’s not as though either of them, her or Haishi, if they knew of the other, had anything to be jealous of. They’re both part of the job, neither one is a choice Shikamaru has made. 

Temari looks at the clock on the wall, squinting in the low light. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? They must be talking. They’re probably saying what she expects them to say. People are always predictable. 

* * *

The pages of his book are thin. It’s older, she can tell, by the color of the pages and their vulnerability. They feel like they would easily tear under her fingers as she flips through them.

The tap shuts off and she can hear Shikamaru exhale as though exasperated. A moment later, she hears the shower curtain close over the tub. 

“It’ll get moldy,” he says, but it’s not sharp in a way that sounds like he is working hard not to be chastising. 

Temari ignores him as he walks out of the bathroom, continuing to look through his book. It’s on some old runes or something. It’d be ideal if he read something more interesting. Something they could both read and discuss at least. 

“I’m almost done,” he offers when he sees her, drying his face on a towel. “If you want to read it?”

Temari shifts, placing the book back down on his bedside table and going back to her side. “Absolutely not.”

Shikamaru doesn’t respond, replacing the towel in the bathroom and pulling the tie out of his hair. 

“When we were in Jiro,” she continues, leaning back against the headboard, blankets at her hips, “I thought that paying attention to what you were reading — trying to figure out what you cared about — would help me get to know you. Help me understand you. I went through your book once, trying to see what was important to you.”

He keeps walking around the room, hanging up his clothes and putting away the towel she’d left on the foot of the bed after showering. 

“Did you?” He says, so casually that, if she didn’t know he paid attention to everything, she would think he was ignoring her. 

He definitely did ignore her often, but that was more of him choosing not to acknowledge what she was saying, never him actually not hearing her. It was probably worse that way.

“What?”

“Get to know me?”

She thinks about this. She thinks about how, in the beginning, she never knew what was real and what wasn’t, what he was choosing to show her and what he was contriving for her. 

“Yes.” Temari says, believing it, and he stops walking to look at her, eyes dark. She did get to know him. Eventually. She doesn’t know much about him. She doesn’t always know what he wants or what his looks mean. But she does know him **.** She could identify it — identify him, his voice, his smell, the feeling of his form beside her and the length of his step on the sidewalk, anywhere. “I do.”

“Mm,” Shikamaru considers, breaking eye contact to turn off the main light before getting into bed. “Still don’t know how to close the shower curtain though, do you?” And he doesn’t say anything else on the matter, but she knows enough not to expect him to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for continuing to read and review! it means so much!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to the people who kept yelling at me on tumblr until i rallied and published. thank them. 
> 
> and, as always, much appreciation to carol and emma for the slog.

“Good timing.”

Temari huffs. “Almost eight months before they wanted you to start moving in on her. And two months before being invited over. I wonder how they gauged that time frame?”

They must have known from the beginning that this party was happening. There are never company-wide events at her job. This one is to celebrate a retirement, the first big one since she began working there — one of the directors; which is why the event is so large and is being held at Kazue Haishi’s home. 

From the beginning, Temari has known there is someone else in her office working for Suna (or Konoha or another ally). There was always going to be someone: someone who gave enough information about the labs to incentivize the government putting her in. Kazue Haishi’s name and position isn’t readily public information. Somebody told them. 

Temari’s always wondered if this person knows about her. They might not. They may have provided information while having no knowledge that someone would ever be put in. Do they know she isn’t really Temari Nara? Do they know she’s an operative? It could be one of her friends. It could be someone on her team. It could be the man at the front desk who says hello to her every morning or the one who says goodnight when she leaves work late. Or they could have facilitated her entire hiring knowing _exactly_ who she is…. It could go either way. She has no clue. 

She does know that this person, whoever it is, provided the information on this director’s retirement months in advance, so that, when Shikamaru was eventually told, the timeframe worked.

Shikamaru taps his fingers on the table as he studies the invitation, although there is nothing to see on it. They’re in the dining room, sitting at the table, all set and ready to depart.

“Long game to keep you out of the loop on,” Temari continues, leaning deeper into the chair, careful not to get the silk of her dress caught on the back of the chair (again), “when you’re the one working it.”

“It is our first one of real importance,” he says, paying more attention to the card in his hands than to her musings. He says _our_ even though it has very little to do with her. 

Temari knows what will happen tonight. She knows how, if she were him, if the mark liked inexperienced and innocent girls, she would play it. She’d keep her hair down and her lipstick light and look uncomfortable in her low-cut dress, like she was beautiful but didn’t quite know it, like her sexual appeal was an accident. She’d ask if the mark were married, ask like she was interested, but nervous, like she was trying to be subtle and failing. 

She knows he will do the same thing, if he hasn’t already. 

They haven’t slept together, but it will happen soon, it seems. Next week, perhaps, or the week after.

“Get her to come to you,” Temari says after a moment. 

She’s seen him play things before. When he’s working, he’s always strong; he always understands what people want and how to give it to them to get what he needs. He’s been well trained, well versed, well experienced in using sex to his advantage. And in the end, in some ways, he’s better than her.

Women, generally, are desired faster, done with quicker. It’s rarer for her to need to carry on relationships with marks. Men, just as generally, especially with heterosexual women, tend to have longer romances, longer seductions. Temari is sure she has slept with more people, but she is sure, without asking, that Shikamaru is much more versed in the art of the affair, in the romantic connotations of sex. 

She knows how she would do it, but he’s done it more. He probably knows better than her, as reluctant as she is to admit it. 

Shikamaru glances up from the card. They’ve not discussed any part of this and he is surprised, or maybe offended, that she is giving him any advice at all. He’s dressed except for his collar, which is unbuttoned and popped up, the shirt loose at his chest.

“I won’t do anything in public, Temari,” he says with a frown. “I won’t embarrass you over this.”

She doesn’t want Haku or Ruka or anyone else to think differently of her. She wants them to think she is happily married. And she feels this in her gut, in the twinge in her spine. She wants them to believe it, not for the purposes of her cover, but because she likes them and she wants them to respect her. 

It’s stupid though. They’re not her friends. They don’t know her. They never will. 

She doesn’t say this to Shikamaru. She only shrugs. It’s meaningless, in the end. It’s likely (not impossible, but probable) that they’ll find out her husband is having an affair with their boss, even if it’s years later. Things like that, especially if they’re so long-term, have a way of coming out. 

It’s going to be a long night. She doesn’t like going to work events — organized things, like this one, or the ones Shikamaru’s school has, are worse than going out to restaurants with friends. It’s not simply because of the circumstances — she’s always felt that way, even before Kiri. She’d never liked dressing up as much as others. She’d never liked smiling all night and sipping lightly on champagne. Though Shikamaru, she knows, hates it much more. He doesn’t like wearing suits and hates the sort of charm required for these kinds of events. 

“Okay,” Shikamaru says, putting down the invitation. He exhales and closes his eyes, tipping his head back, sounding pained. “We should go.” He makes no movement to get up though. 

Temari sits up, balances her elbow on the table, chin in her hand, and waits. 

He cracks an eye and looks at her watching him. Her wedding rings digs into her jaw.

He closes his eyes again, squeezing them shut, and sighs dramatically. “I could really go for a cigarette right now.” 

Then, as soon as he says it, he straightens and blinks, refocusing, and pushes away from the table to stand. He reaches for his tie, previously laid out on the table, and fits it around his neck, looking down to begin tying it. 

“Maybe we can get out early,” he says, fingers nimble on the black material. Temari watches. “If we play our cards right.”

She’s not paying attention to what he’s saying though. She’s watching. Just watching. 

She’s never seen anything like this. She’s never seen him do something like put on a tie. 

And there is no way to actually explain it, to articulate it with any logos or sensible coherency. She rarely sees him get dressed or change, but she _has_ seen it happen before… and she has slept beside him for over half a year… she’s seen him in his pajamas, emerging with wet hair from the shower; she’s seen him wake up… but this, this is different. Somehow, watching him do his tie like this — it’s the most intimate thing she has ever witnessed. You shouldn’t be doing this, she wants to say, not in front of me! Don’t you know you’re not in private!?

Because it looks like it should be — looks like this should be an intimate act. Like he is doing something open and vulnerable before her. It’s embarrassing. It’s too much. Too immodest. Too arousing. 

He must see it. He must, as he calls out her name. But she can’t answer. She can’t breathe. She’s hungry. She’s hungry for him. She wants to undo his tie and make him redo it. She wants to mess him up. She wants to watch him take off his clothes, she wants to see his fingers on his buttons as he pops them out and she wants to see his tie loosen around his neck. She wants to feel his hips on the backs of her fingers as she undoes the button of his pants, she wants to watch him pull down his socks, slip the fabric over his ankle, his arch, see the cracks in his heel and the hair on his leg. 

Honestly, she is sure, even absently, in this moment, that she has seen him in a suit before. She recognizes it. She recognizes this tie. She’s _seen_ him wear it before! But he’s never done it up before her. 

It’s too intimate. Too stimulating. Too exciting. 

Her fingers are itching to touch him. Her mouth is dry. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, and it’s clearly not the first time he has asked it. “Temari?”

Temari has to bite her tongue to shake herself out of it. She has to take a deep breath and look away, pressing her palm flat against the table. She is heaving. She feels the desire to touch in her knees and throat. 

It’s all too much. It’s just a tie. It’s meaningless. It’s all pointless. 

“I’m fine,” she says, too shortly, when his hand lifts to come to her shoulder. She stops him before he touches her. The strap of her dress is thin. The last thing she needs is for him to touch her skin. She never wants to touch him again. 

He stops, pulls his hand, hovering in the air, back. In her periphery, he stands there, unmoving. 

It’s only a moment. Only a few seconds and then her breath is under control. 

“We should go,” he says again after another minute has passed. “If you’re ready?”

* * *

Temari watches as he wanders near a room off the main parlor where most people are. He looks around, eyes not coming to Temari, and then he ducks into the room and disappears from view. 

They spent the beginning of the night together, saying hello to some of her coworkers, before he went off to speak with one of the other spouses that also happens to work at the paper. She hasn’t seen him since, except from afar. 

It’s only minutes before Temari turns her head again to look for Kazue Haishi, but the woman, tall and elegant and easily discoverable before, now is nowhere to be found. She’s likely with Shikamaru, but Temari doesn’t know for sure. The sooner the better. If she’s followed him so quickly, things are on track. And the sooner it happens tonight, the sooner Temari can go home. 

It’s not champagne she’s drinking, as expected, but a glass of red, and the heaviness of the grapes coats her tongue and the back of her throat. She is leaning against the mantle above a fireplace, careful not to press against it too strongly lest there be a red line on her back above the cut of her dress. She’s keeping her eyes away from the room Shikamaru walked into, but she isn’t listening too well to whatever Ruka and Zabuza, Haku’s boyfriend, are discussing. It’s mostly Ruka speaking about their work while the other two remain silent, but it’s an easy cover from paying too much attention to Shikamaru. 

It’s nice, in a way, to see her coworkers out of the labs; to see them enjoy themselves and take pleasure in their environment. It’s good to see her friends dress up like this. It’s nice to be able to drink, and it eases her feelings about Haishi and the assignment.

She’s not jealous. She has nothing to be jealous over. He doesn’t want Haishi (though, even if they’re closer, it’s not like he wants Temari either). 

But she is anxious. It’s in her shoulders. In the tightness of her throat. And the alcohol, while certainly helpful, can only do so much. And she has to be more alert than usual. She can’t drink nearly as much as she’d like to.

How long has it been? Ruka was saying something about the recent developments to the program and now she and Zabuza are talking about a controversial article in a scientific journal that has been making the rounds recently. 

Deciding it’s been long enough, Temari cranes her neck and looks around the room. She doesn’t see either of the people she is looking for. 

She settles back and takes another sip of her wine, holding it in the back of her throat for a moment before swallowing. She brings one hand to her lips, hoping they’d be numb, but knowing they aren’t. 

It’s not long afterwards, five minutes or so, she thinks, before she catches Shikamaru in the corner of her sight coming toward her. 

Good. She’ll get them out of here quick. 

She swallows, waits a moment until he is close enough, and then turns to see him, grinning and throwing herself forward so he’ll catch her at the waist. Before he can say anything, she reaches up, hands on either side of his face and pushes her lips against his. 

“Temari,” he grunts as she pulls away, his hands hard on her torso. 

She laughs, pointing at his mouth. “Sorry,” she says, smiling as though thoroughly entertained. “You have lipstick now.” 

The imprint of her, slightly off his own lips, is clear with her bright red lipstick against him. 

She covers her mouth, laughing, as Shikamaru lets her go to wipe at his face. He looks annoyed. He’s annoyed at her for drinking so much, for kissing him so openly in a professional setting. 

“Stop,” he says under his breath, but clear enough for anyone paying attention to them to notice, clear enough in just his expression for Kazue Haishi to see from wherever she is (no doubt) watching. “How much have you had to drink?”

“I’m _fine,_ ” she says, pouting, pushing at his chest lightly, playfully, “‘missed you.”

Shikamaru sighs and reaches for her shoulders. “Let’s get you home.” He holds his arm over her shoulders tightly, as though handling her as they turn back to Ruka and Zabuza. “We’re going to head out.”

Ruka smiles and Zabuza nods, looking the two of them over. 

“You’ll drive, right?” Ruka asks jokingly. 

“Always do.”

Temari smiles and tilts her head. “It was so good to see you, Zabuza,” she says, reaching out a hand to touch his arm even though she knows he dislikes it. “Tell Haku I’ll see him later.”

“Have a good night,” Ruka concludes, laughing, leaning forward to kiss Temari on the cheek in parting. “Drink some water.”

“Believe me,” Shikamaru adds, waving his free hand as he nudges Temari away, “she will.” They don’t speak to anyone else on their way out.

* * *

She is slow to get out of the car, surprised to actually find herself tipsier than she’d expected even after the single glass of wine she’d had at the party. Did she eat anything tonight?

Shikamaru is waiting outside, hands in his coat pockets until she closes the door behind her. He locks the doors with a turn of the key and then leads the way down the flagstone to their front door. Inside, without a word (they haven’t spoken since they left Haishi’s house), he heads to the kitchen. 

Temari leans against the wall in the entryway to slip off her shoes. Her heels are high. Her feet hurt. And by the time she has unbuckled the straps around her ankles and slipped them off, Shikamaru is back with a glass of water. He doesn’t offer it to her, taking sips himself. 

She ignores him and begins making her way upstairs. She can feel him watching though, she can feel his eyes on her, on the line of her spine and on her neck.

When she glances back, more than halfway up the stairs, he is leaning on the bottom of the bannister, his tie undone and his collar open, chin resting on his forearms, as though he is settling in to watch her walk up. 

Temari rolls her eyes. She’s not wearing a tight skirt tonight (or anything like it), but he’s only making fun of her, and, if anything, it does make her feel better. 

She turns, smirking to herself, and continues up. 

* * *

She wakes up slowly, feeling him roll over again and again, knowing there is no danger, simply his own inability to sleep, that is rousing her. It happens, on occasion, especially when they were first put together, but still now, even though she is used to his inconsistent sleeping hours. 

It’s slow enough that she finds herself imagining him long before she is sufficiently awake enough to realize she is dreaming. They almost never touch in bed, but in her dream, with her eyes closed and her body only barely aware, she imagines a conversation where he reaches out for her arm. 

By the time she does fully wake up, her heart is pounding. 

She knows he’s awake, but she isn’t sure if it’s reciprocal. Either way, she doesn’t roll over or make any indication that she is also up. 

Instead, Temari lays there, blankets pulled up high to her chest, and opens her eyes in the darkness, blinking at the table and the wall a few feet from her. She can imagine Shikamaru is laying on his back, looking at the ceiling. 

She thinks back to her dream, back to him speaking, back to his palm on her elbow. 

A part of her, right now, wants to reach out, to roll back and extend her hand, and touch him again. Just to see what it is like. Just to see what he will do. 

She won’t though. 

But — perhaps… if she did, she wonders what he would do, how he would react. She imagines it now, pictures it unfolding. She imagines asking, like she did their third day. Would he still rebuff her? Would she want him to?

Yes. And no. 

She has never actually _wanted_ anyone for any real time in any real way. She’s been attracted to people of course. And when she is attracted to them, in ways that transcend general sexual interest, in the times when she ruminates for periods and yearns for their attention, then she usually has them. She hasn’t been with many people of her own choosing, but there have been some. Relationships, the minor ones she has had, always began with a similar sort of desire, usually from afar, or from a brief and enjoyable meeting. And then a date. And then, not much later, sex. 

The pieces have a way of falling into place consistently, of always coming to the same result. Soon, she and the object of her interest will be seeing each other. And it will be enjoyable. But eventually, inevitably, things will begin to get in the way. It’s work, usually, but also other things — obligations, and futures, and annoyances as trivial as how many peas to fit on the tine of a fork. And then, as easily as it once began, it ends. 

Picturing that with Shikamaru, when she does it, is also easy. It’s so easy, too easy. 

She does it now, lying in bed, only feet from him, her back to him and her lips closed. 

If things were different, this is how it would probably happen (and, she believes, it _would_ happen): they would meet, they would argue, they’d fall into bed together, and eventually they would separate. They would never last, of course. He annoys her all the time. He doesn’t dedicate himself to his work in the serious way she desires. They have different dreams and hopes for their futures (or they would, if they weren’t doing this here in Kiri). He will never represent her interests, and they fight much too frequently… she even hates the way he folds his napkin in his lap and the way he blinks when he is tired and his eyelids are heavy. She hates the way, right now, he is keeping her up with his own inability to sleep on a regular human schedule. 

But they’d have a good run. They’d meet and flirt easily, like they sometimes do now. Like they sometimes did, though more rarely, when they first met. They’d do it more, probably, if there were no other pressure or pretense. He likes someone that is hard to get ahead of and she likes the way he challenges her. They’d flirt in that argumentative sort of way and then, early on, she would seduce him (he would never seduce her, he is too patient… even when he _wants_ to fight with her, it is rare that he doesn’t wait for her to start it). 

She can picture it: picture his kiss and his hands on either side of her face, the opening of his jaw, of his lips, of his tongue. They’d fuck in her apartment in Suna on the kitchen floor and it would be short and good (not amazing, not mind-blowing, not at first, but still so good in a different way) and she imagines how he’d kiss her (even though they’ve never kissed like that) and what it would feel like to have his weight pushing her down and his sweat on her skin. And then, if he were stationed in Suna or just visiting or whatever scenario she can concoct, they’d have sex everywhere and frequently, long before they actually began dating. Except the sex would always be slow, and always be easy, as though fitting a key into a lock (or something less clichéd and ribald, but equally as conclusive). Making love, he would probably say, mostly because she can’t picture him having sex with her in any other way. 

Her heart is pounding now, differently, not simply by virtue of being awake, but because she is thinking about it. Thinking of it, even though she isn’t actually thinking of having _sex_ with him. She is thinking of her life, her opportunity, if things were different. 

He must hear it. It is pounding in her ears. It’s still early March, still cold, but she is sweating at the back of her neck and under her arms. 

She imagines, eyes closed now, that he would smoke afterwards, which she both has never found attractive until him and also knows is not something he does anymore. But she pictures the photograph downstairs of the unlit cigarette in his mouth and his hand on her thigh. She wants to breathe in the smoke he exhales. She wants to lick the nicotine out of his mouth. She wants to clean the tar from his fingers. 

And she knows they’d eat in bed and then have sex again and then separate and do their work and then, when time allowed it, fall back together once more. 

But, as things are, as they would be, they’d argue. And they’d choose their countries over each other. And eventually they’d break up. And she would marry someone who, albeit maybe a little more boring, would be more complementary to her. She shouldn’t marry someone who always keeps her on her toes, she should marry someone she will never leave, someone she wants to have children with. 

Shikamaru sighs and it prompts her to turn around, rolling onto her side to face him. He’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

She doesn’t make any noise or give any other hint that she is awake, though he probably knows. 

He isn’t looking at her though and he doesn’t turn to see her when she turns to see him.

She wonders what he is thinking about. Probably work. Maybe school. Maybe Kazue Haishi or Hinoto or Konoha or maybe even her. 

Temari doesn’t know what this is. She doesn’t know what she wants to actually happen. Sex is one thing. And that’s easy to desire. But desiring him is different. Especially when sex is inevitable. It will happen. In a few years it will be time to have children. And, even though she thinks they would be together under different circumstances, that isn’t the life they live. 

She feels like sex, even if she thinks, often, that he looks at her like he wants her, will only be a further confirmation of his lack of choice in the matter. She doesn’t want him to feel like he has to do something when he doesn’t want to or to make him feel like he was robbed of his choice in her. 

Still. _Still_. 

She wants. She desires. She craves. She thinks about him all the time. She wishes, for the first time with such gravitas and rectitude, that she weren’t here in Kiri but back home, as herself, beside him. She is sweating. Her ears are red. The thought of him, so close, so possible, is deep in her gut, her groin, in the tenseness of her knees and the ache in her ribs…. She wonders what this is. When did this happen? 

Is it reciprocated? Does he desire this? Desire her? What if he does? And what if he doesn’t?

She keeps her eyes on him, left cheek against her pillow, until she drifts back off. By the time she is asleep, he still hasn’t closed his eyes.

* * *

“There’s a speech at the university,” Hinoto says the next week. “You should go.”

“Shikamaru told me.”

Hinoto crosses her legs and tightens her coat. “Don’t let anyone recognize you.” They’re on a park bench Tuesday morning before work. 

Temari nods. “There will be people from his program who I’ve met,” she says. But she knows she can do it. She’s not refusing. “Anything specific?”

The older woman shakes her head. “Anything of interest, anyone.”

“Hm.”

Hinoto brought coffee and muffins for Temari, and some for Shikamaru as well, which was unusually kind of her. Temari stays on the bench, content to watch people walk past with their dogs or on their way to work as she sips her drink. She’s just been running and her legs are cold, but the coffee is helping. 

“How often do you go home?” Temari asks when she thinks of it. 

Hinoto turns her head, her perfect brows arching. Temari wonders, not for the first time, if she had been a spy before she handled them. She did something, sometime, to work with Neji, but was she ever under deep cover like this, being handled by someone else? Being a handler is a better position, a higher rank, technically, and Temari has always supposed they were trained for their purposes solely, but there is something in the way Hinoto moves and looks that piques Temari’s interest. She looks like she knows how to handle herself. Like she has had to handle herself before. 

“Between assignments,” Hinoto says. “Once in the last decade.”

Hinoto can’t be more than thirty-five, and even that is a _stretch_. 

Perhaps that means Hinoto would be with her for another ten years. Maybe not. Maybe Hinoto has it better. Maybe worse. 

Temari wouldn’t know. 

“You should get going.” 

She takes the cups and muffins and walks away, leaving Hinoto sitting there looking tart.

* * *

It’s windy out when Temari gets back. It’s snowing, but nothing is sticking, it’s just flying around in the air, hitting her face, and is gone before it hits the ground. Even if it were sticking, it’s late enough in the season that everything would disappear within a few hours. 

“How was it?” He asks as she walks in after hanging her coat and scarf. 

Shikamaru is at the table, a school book open before him, but he seems to be paying little attention to it, writing things down as he eats what she assumes is his lunch even though it’s well past two o’clock. 

Temari pulls up the chair across the away and sits down. “Interesting. He’s from here originally, but teaches now in Kumogakure.”

Shikamaru puts down his sandwich. It’s Sunday and he hasn’t showered or shaved in a few days. His hair is tied back, but it’s not brushed and he looks as though he has just rolled out of bed, though she knows he’s been up since early this morning. 

“He spoke a lot about Kumo’s duty to the west. About how it meant Kumo, even being in talks with Kiri, was obligated to the west in a way that would mean it stays neutral. He says it’s inevitable that the Cloud slip into a position of liaison between the two areas. It’s only a matter of time.”

He thinks on this. “Do you believe it?”

Temari shrugs. She believed that what the lecturer was saying had enough merit, and, most importantly, enough support, that she should begin integrating herself with this political division. A good group to keep an eye on and a foot in. “He was convincing.”

“See anyone you knew?”

“Two people from your class, but I don’t know their names. No one you’re close with.”

Shikamaru shifts the papers he’s been writing notes on. “And how did you do?”

“Well, people are certainly interested. The youth, mainly, but there were a fair amount of older, wealthier people too. And the remarks were controversial, but fed on by the younger ones. I am sure there will be more groups popping up.”

After she finishes, he belatedly pushes his plate to her, offering her the other half of his sandwich. 

“No,” she stops the plate’s motion. “I went out with the boy sitting next to me and his friends.”

Shikamaru looks down at the food and then back up at her, pulling his plate back. 

“They’re involved,” she continues. “They’ll know others.”

“Radical?”

“Wrong kind of speech.”

Shikamaru huffs and leans back in his chair, pulling his book closer as though he is going to actually do his homework. 

“I’ll go next time,” he says. 

She thinks about the speech. The auditorium wasn’t filled, but it was crowded. It is doable. 

“Separately,” she says. They shouldn’t go in together, especially now that she knows some people, now that relationships are already forming. “Cover more ground.”

* * *

“Awfully fast turn.”

Shikamaru pauses on the corner, toes already over the edge of the curb, ready to cross the street. He glances back. “He moves to a new city, he gets a new handler.”

Temari raises her brows. “This is our town. We should be the ones choosing the location.”

It’s not the first time she’s said this — Shikamaru doesn’t often acknowledge her complaints, so by now she is well used to repetition, if only because it bothers him more. And it does. Without a word, he sighs and moves away, continuing off the curb and across the street. 

The bar she is meeting this informant in is two blocks south. She’s passed it on her way over here, walking north up the street until she bumped into Shikamaru on this corner. They’re switching now — she’ll continue west around the block and back down, then around to the street the bar is on where she will wait at the bus stop directly across from the bar’s entrance; Shikamaru, having entered the bar for a few minutes, scoping it out, will exit and meet her at the stop. 

Her handwriting — her way of meeting the informants she’ll run — is usually to meet in a crowded place, like a shopping mall or a metro hub, where lots of people are milling about. She prefers the anonymity of large crowds. The man had requested this though — a bar in midtown at eleven am — and so Shikamaru had come to help.

It’s cold out, but the sun is high and she can only see her breath when she concentrates on it.   
  
Wrapping her jacket tighter around her, Temari turns the last corner and comes to the bus stop. She buys a copy of the paper from a vending box by the bench and then goes to take a seat. Shikamaru should be out soon.

She crosses one leg over the other and opens the paper before her. She holds it up enough to cover her face, but also so that she can still keep an eye out for the man she is meeting. She has thirty minutes before his scheduled appearance. But if he has turned, they’ll already be staking the place out, waiting to trap her. She is looking for cars parked along the block with exhaust blowing out of their tailpipes or any vans with antennas. 

Nothing. 

She flips the page. 

A few minutes later, the door to the bar opens and she catches Shikamaru exit and jog over to her, coat thrown over his arm. He stops a few feet from the bench, not looking at her, and drops his briefcase to the ground to put on his coat, back to the bar in case anyone is watching. 

“No drinkers not touching their pints,” he informs. “More people than I expected, too, but you’ll still be overheard. Best to confirm identities and find a new place.”

He finishes with his coat and turns back, as though waiting for the bus. 

Temari huffs. Stupid. They shouldn’t have agreed to meet him here. What a waste of time. 

“They used to tell us that once you’re in the field, the agent is always in control.” There’s a hint of amusement under his breath. He shouldn’t be talking to her right now, but she smiles at it anyway. It seems safe enough. Neither of them has spotted anyone. 

“Not with Hinoto,” Temari adds, knowing it’s what he means. Hinoto always seems to be the one in control when it comes to their relationship. 

“Troublesome, isn’t it?”

Temari laughs. 

Neither of them say anything more as a bus pulls up. Shikamaru will take it. Temari will wait here, carefully disguised, keeping an eye out in case anything changes, until her informer comes, and then she will follow him into the bar. 

“Oh,” Shikamaru says as the bus stops and someone gets off. “There’s a bell above the door too. Lucky there.”

Temari ignores him, turning a page of the paper again. She keeps her head down until the bus, and Shikamaru, are gone, and then she shifts positions to take in the street before her once more. 

* * *

She’s walked down the street. She’s had some crackers. She’s even had to drive north a mile to go to the bathroom after stupidly downing a whole bottle of water thirty minutes into it. 

It’s not like it has taken them long. Within minutes of Shikamaru going into the hotel, which she’d watched from the car, his legs taking him in long, easy steps up the stairs, Kazue Haishi is following him in, still wearing the suit she’d worn to work.

It’s been only an hour since then, but they’ve already eaten and gone up to a hotel room. 

Temari ’s parked slightly up the block, too underneath a streetlight for comfort, but no one is paying her any attention and she has a good view of the hotel from here. 

Most of the time has been boring. Shikamaru so rarely talks with her about this, so she hasn’t heard much of what he discusses while working, but now, actually listening in, she is hearing him ask questions about Kazue Haishi’s work and about her life — after all, Haishi is very accomplished — and then Shikamaru spends a lot of time mentioning his wife. He says they were really young when they got together, young to be married. He regrets it, he was just too young — _they_ were too young to make such a decision. 

He’s worried. 

“I’ve never been with anyone else,” he says. It’s all a little off through the mic, like the sound is coming through a wall or from some distance, but she can hear it well enough. She can hear everything they say. 

Temari rolls her eyes and taps her fingers on her knee where it’s pushed up to her chest, foot on the seat. 

She keeps picturing it. She has no idea where they are in the room or what the scene looks like, but she imagines Shikamaru saying these words, imagines him awkward and aroused. She imagines what the scene must be, how the staging and props are playing out.

She’s annoyed at the situation, and while she’s contemplating, and chastising, herself for being annoyed at all, she misses a crucial moment, because now she doesn’t hear anything. But then they’re kissing, and she can hear that. It’s real kissing, long kisses that aren’t done in passing, kisses that are meant to lead to something else. They’re kissing and kissing and she hears all of it. 

“Sit down,” the woman instructs. 

She imagines he does; imagines him at the edge of a bed, like he sometimes sits at the edge of their bed. 

Kazue Haishi is older, but not unattractive. Not at all. Honestly, it’s no wonder so many young men fall all over her. 

“Just be in the moment, darling.” Temari hears her say, low. “Think of me.”

Temari’s mouth is dry. Her palms are sweaty.

There is a pause. A moment, and then her voice again: take off your clothes.

Really, Temari shouldn’t be listening to this. 

Another pause. Then a sound that she can’t readily identify. 

“All of them.” A moment, then, “that’s it.”

A few months ago, in another car in another country, Shikamaru sat confined in a driver’s seat listening to Temari have sex with someone else. He listened to her, plotted her, having sex with another man. She wonders what he thought about then. 

That was different though. It must have been. Here, Haishi is more explicit. Temari is sure that listening to her was quieter, though she actually doesn’t really remember. But here, Haishi is being clear and articulate in each step. She’s telling him what to do, she’s putting words to his actions, as though it’s a hotline service and they’re not actually in a hotel room. 

Shikamaru is naked now — he is sitting down, Temari knows, and is completely naked. She’s never seen him like that. These are things being described to her, in detail, as Haishi says them aloud. He has an erection. His chest is flushed. He looks earnest. His hand is shaking when he touches Haishi — she keeps telling him to place it harder, to grab her here and there. She is telling him where to touch her, demonstrating or maybe guiding — _up top. There. To the left. A little less. Yes. Like that. Good. Now keep going. And then this_. 

Temari hears it all. She listens to all of it. He asks too, and he keeps asking. He keeps talking, voice deep over the line; he keeps checking. He is seemingly making no moves without her direction. And she _is_ directing. 

Mostly, Temari tries not to visualize it. She’s sitting there, leaning back against the front bench seat, casually dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Inconspicuous. Boring. Laid-back. Insouciant. A regular person just waiting in their car. A regular person doing a regular activity.

She is listening to it though. It’s dark out, but there are still a handful of people in the street. It’s a busy downtown neighborhood. Temari glances at the hotel. She wonders what room they’re in. Is the window facing the street?

It’s too much to listen to for long. Eventually it becomes too loud, too repetitive. 

She wonders what Haishi sees in Shikamaru. He’s good-looking, sure, but his most attractive qualities are all related to his intelligence and quick wit. None of the things he is bringing to the table now. He’s stupid here, dumb, easily guided, and immature. What is attractive about that? Especially for someone of Kazue Haishi’s standing. Can’t she do better? She could find someone of real promise _like_ Shikamaru. But she doesn’t want that. She wants someone to control, someone to teach. Someone who _wants_ to be taught. 

Temari doesn’t understand that.

She sighs. At one point they weren’t having penetrative sex, but now it sounds like they are. Or maybe not. She doesn’t know. She is trying not to pay too much attention, but then he makes a noise, loud over the radio, and it perks her to interest.

She imagines the position. She imagines what he might look like. She imagines how it would feel. 

She’s hot now. She sweating underneath her sweatshirt, even though it’s cold out, the heat isn’t on, and she has nothing underneath her sweater.

Did Shikamaru picture it? When he sat there, listening to her, did he imagine what she was doing? No. He was watching Gengo’s men. Now, Temari has barely looked at the hotel. 

She shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t want to hear this. 

The threat of Haishi right now is very different than from a man like Minoichi. Shikamaru needed to be there, she doesn’t need to be _here_.

Oh. They’ve _definitely_ moved on from foreplay now. Haishi is describing him inside of her. 

Shikamaru, mostly, is quiet except to ask if something is okay. He doesn’t make much noise otherwise.

Temari, stupidly, she admits, knows what this is. It’s jealousy. It was before, when Shikamaru and Haishi met, when he spoke with her alone and Temari was left out of it. It’s Temari being jealous. 

But there is no reason for it. No reason whatsoever. Temari has already slept with one person since being ‘married’ and she will sleep with many, many more. She flirted with the man she sat with at the lecture just last week. She will probably eventually sleep with him. Or one of his friends. Maybe both. Whatever will be the most valuable. 

So there is no reason to be jealous. Not only does this not reflect Shikamaru’s choices or desires at all, but there is nothing to be jealous of. He doesn’t belong to her. He never has. He never will. It’s not like he is having sex with her. It’s not like he owes her anything as far as this is concerned. 

Temari does understand some of it though. Even before this (before she ever wanted Shikamaru), back when she had other partners, back with Nejiri or anyone else she was ever paired with… when you left them, it hurt. When Nejiiri was assigned to work with someone else, even though it wasn’t personal and was not of any consequence to her, she was jealous. And Nejiri was only a friend, whereas Shikamaru… isn’t. 

Temari turns down the volume. She needs to put a stop to this. She really shouldn’t hear anything. She’s only here as back-up for their first meeting. He’s not even after anything tonight. He’s just building a foundation. There isn’t any information he is seeking. There is nothing for her to hear. 

Jealousy. Simple. That is what this is. 

As though, perhaps, despite him being ordered as her partner, he would have chosen her anyway. It had felt that way with Nejiri by the end. And even though every word out of Shikamaru’s mouth in this hotel room isn’t real, even though she _knows_ it isn’t (he never sounds that unsure or young, even when they first met and he seemed so fragile… _and_ tonight he had been saying things about his marriage which in itself doesn’t really exist, so seriously, she knows wholeheartedly the falsity of his words), she is jealous anyway. She still feels it. She feels it when this woman does something with Shikamaru that she has never done. And something that, except in its very utilitarian actions, she will never get to do. 

It’s louder now over the speaker, even with the volume lower. And, even though she knows she shouldn’t do it (why, _why_ is she doing this), she turns the volume back up. 

It’s Shikamaru this time. 

He’s louder. He’s the one making noise. 

It’s eager and deep and she hears it go and go and go until he is done. And she hears that too. She hears it end. 

Temari’s hands are squeezing her legs, nails digging into the skin of her thigh beneath the denim. There is sweat on her temples now. She is turned on. Even from just the sounds. Even from the sounds of someone else. She is wet. She is warm. She wants to slide her hips forward as though they might hit something. She wants to touch herself. But she also hates herself for this. For wanting this. For _thinking_ about it like this. 

It goes on, of course. They talk after, though not for long. They’ll have an affair but they won’t be lovers. It’s not what Haishi wants. 

Temari is biding her time, waiting for him to come back, waiting to drive home so she can shower, waiting to be far away from his voice in her ear. And then, eventually, when he leaves the hotel room, Temari turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of her spot, driving around the hotel and back two blocks into a parking garage where he will find her. 

She wants to get out of here. Her heart is pounding, even though he isn’t talking anymore. There is nothing but static on the line. He must be walking. 

And then, minutes later, he is opening the unlocked passenger side. 

She doesn’t look at him. Her hands are tight on the wheel. 

The second he closes the door, she smells it though. He _smells_ like it — _sex_. He smells like sweat. It’s too hot. She’s too angry. 

It’s your fault, she wants to say, even though she has no reason to say it. She can hear how heavily she is breathing, how, since the moment he got in the car, the only sound has been the huffs of her exhale. 

It’s only a moment, and then Shikamaru reaches out to the dashboard, hand on the dash as he turns to face her, frowning. He is going to ask why they haven’t left, why she hasn’t turned the car back on and backed out of the spot to drive them home, but he stops. 

“I don’t _want_ this, Temari.” He says, short and hard, as though she is making some face at him that makes her feelings obvious. Or maybe not obvious, because, even though she is still only looking ahead, knuckles white on the wheel, he suddenly leans forward, concerned. “Are _you_ okay?”

Her throat hurts. Her eyes are dry no matter how much she blinks. She feels tense, like she is moments away from snapping, like the anticipation of restraint paired with the adrenaline of hearing him are binding together, ready to react with only the tap of a finger or the bat of a lash.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. But she is taut, because then, for no reason, with no inclination from him that he even wants this, so far removed from any real moment (like the ones that two people might share that lend themselves towards desire, like such moments, though few, that they have shared where she felt inclined to lean in), she throws herself at him. 

That’s what she does, across the long seat, throwing her hands out and reaching for his face, his neck, his chest, and pulling him into her, pulling his mouth against hers. 

It’s a serious kiss. A hard one, that is unrelenting and doesn’t allow him to move back or to give in. She’s holding them there, holding herself. And she isn’t thinking. She feels dizzy. Everything feels hot. And then she is opening her mouth and moving against him and catching his lips between hers for a moment and then moving again. 

Her heart is going miles a minute. She feels like she is dripping in sweat, like if she doesn’t start losing clothes now, if she doesn’t open a window, she will start to melt. 

And then it stops. Shikamaru pushes her back hard — it has to be hard, she is holding onto him so tightly — but it’s only a few inches because of the car and the grip of his hands on her shoulders. It’s not enough, not quite, for her to get him into focus. Which is good — good, she thinks, because she doesn’t want to. She only wants one thing. She only wants this. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, words rushing out the second they are free to. 

And that’s all it is, because then, to her greatest relief, he is kissing her back. Kissing her, really kissing her, for the first time. His tongue, his teeth, his skin beneath her — it’s all there. A kiss, one that speaks of real desire, of real interest. There’s no show here, no camera, no friends, no image nor résumé to maintain. It’s just them. And he is kissing her, hands coming into her hair, mouthing at her like it, like everything right now, is irresistible. 

“Wait,” he breathes. “Wait.” But he keeps kissing her. He pulls her closer, tugs on her body, pulls her across to him, tugging her closer until she is on his lap, legs on either side of his. And then, once she is straddling him, he pushes her back with more vigor, far enough this time to meet her eye. 

She’s panting. So is he. Temari looks down at his mouth. It’s red. She’s done that. She wants that, wants more of it. She wants to consume him. 

Shikamaru pulls her chin up, focusing her attention to his words, assuring her comprehension. “Are you sure?” He asks, more seriously, voice low and eyes blown. 

It takes half a second more than it should to register, but it makes her want to laugh. Is she sure? _She’s_ the one who wants this. _She_ is the one who has wanted him for months. She is the one who first asked, and he is the one who turned her down. He is the one, who despite where he just came from, has still never actually been with someone. And maybe, she thinks, for only a split-second and in a way that isn’t fully thought out, he wants to be with her. 

His expression makes her want to laugh. She’s atop him, body flush against his, mouth wet with his saliva. 

“Are _you_?” She asks, and he answers by grabbing the back of her head and pulling her back down to him, mouth already open. They’re in the parking garage — they’re _paying_ for this parking — and she’s blocking him from the light as they make out, but still, anyone walking by would see them. 

Temari threads her hands around his neck, at the base of his skull, under his collar. There is sweat at his roots. She’s wanted to do this for so long, she can hardly concentrate enough now to recognize it is happening. 

All she knows is Shikamaru’s tongue is in her mouth. And she’s greedy. It’s greedy. She wants this and so much more. 

His hands are on her hips, pushing under her sweatshirt, fingers against her stomach, her back, pressing into her skin, and she is pushing closer, pushing her hips into his, feeling the hardness there, harder the longer they kiss, the hungrier she is. And he is making all sorts of noises. His breath is loud, painful against her face, his hands are sure, touching her belly, her ribcage, flat against the clasp of her bra and then down again. And she keeps pushing down, keeps pressing herself on him, as though this is it, as though there are no clothes constraining or withholding anything between them. 

It’s not enough — though it could be, this could be it, if she let it go on longer — but he is making noises in the back of his throat and she wants to swallow them, she wants to swallow more. She reaches for his pants. He has no belt, so all she has to do is get under his sweater to get at the top of his pants and pop the button. 

She doesn’t think about how he has just done this. She doesn’t think about how she isn’t seeing him naked like he just was, about how she is hardly seeing him at all. All she knows (which coherently isn’t much) is that his hands are on her butt now and are pulling her closer, which at the moment makes it harder to undo his pants. 

She pulls away to undo his fly, to look down at her hands, precise and quick despite what feels like a lack of control. Shikamaru starts mouthing at her neck and shoulder, his teeth, his grip, at her back now, holding her close, pulling at her ear, licking at her skin. 

Temari pays attention though, watches as she pulls him out of his jeans, looks at the head of his cock, wanting to see more, to touch more, wanting, almost, in a way, to stop and lean closer and study and lift his shirt to watch the muscles on his stomach as they engage when she touches him, wants to feel the flex in his thighs and hear the things he says to her when it’s slower. What will he say? Will he speak? Will he let her do whatever she wants? 

When she does touch him in a real way, more than just releasing him from the bindings of his pants, he pulls his mouth off her shoulder to groan, guttural in her ear. It’s deep and desperate and sounds like it was pulled from him, like she reached down inside him to find that noise, like its release was ineluctable. She’s never heard anything like it. And on instinct she tugs on him, once, twice, hands slick with sweat and pre-come and she is fascinated to watch it, fascinated to look up and watch him. He’s not kissing her anymore. His head is tipped back, his throat exposed, the veins and hollows of his neck are long and defined and she wants to touch them. 

And then, in moments, the hands on her waist are tightening. His fingers are flexing and releasing in shudders in time with his hips. His whole body is vibrating against her. His eyelids are fluttering and he’s making noise like he can’t quite get enough air. His shoulders, long and always of interest to her, shake. It’s only a moment, only four swipes of her hand, lacking any sort of finesse, any sort of intention, and he is coming underneath her, into her hand, further, against her wrist and forearm. 

They’ve both stopped moving. 

Temari lets go. She flexes her hand. She looks down, but does nothing. 

It’s only a moment, a suspension in time between the frenzy and the aftermath, a transition, and then it ends. He pushes her back by her elbows and she pulls her leg away, sliding off his lap and back to her side of the bench seat. 

It’s hot in the car, but not like it was before. It’s stuffy. It smells of sex. Smells like him. 

Temari wipes her hand off on her jeans, not wanting to find something else, not minding if it does stain her one pair of blue jeans. Beside her, Shikamaru is straightening his legs and pushing up to fix his clothes and redo his pants. 

It’s quiet. She doesn’t have much to say. 

He doesn’t offer to do anything else. Neither of them wants to. It’s as though she’s had a cold bucket of water dropped on her head. She’d kissed him with no conscious intention, without considering the consequences. It was only right for it to end before it went too far. It was an accident. She never meant to put him in this sort of position. She had always intended to keep this to herself. 

Still, after she turns on the car and backs out of the parking lot, after she pays the booth on the way out, she keeps thinking of his face and his hands and his semen on her and it makes her want to touch him again, to explore further ways in which he could kiss her, further ways she could make him come. She wants to see how good it will be. 

But it’s just desire. Nothing more. It can be reined in. 

_An assignment_ , Hinoto said. Just an assignment. 

They drive home in silence. They change cars in silence. It’s uncomfortable and jilted, but it’s been worse. She isn’t desperate to get out of the car. She isn’t wanting to leave his company. 

The commute isn’t long at night and they get home within fifteen minutes, pulling carefully into the driveway. 

She can see the conclusion of the day easily. They will go upstairs with no words exchanged, they will read and go to sleep and tomorrow everything will be back to normal and they will never speak of this again. 

When she turns off the engine though, Shikamaru moves, enough for her to understand he intends to speak. 

Temari pauses, hand hovering near the key. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice raw, as though he hasn’t spoken for a long time, as though his throat hurts. And when she turns to look at him, to see the collar she’d pulled at, the hair out of its tie, and the scratches at his neck that she’s mostly sure are from her, she is only looking at his profile, his eyes focused straight ahead, though there is nothing but the wall of the guest bedroom to see. “That I couldn’t before.”

An image of her hand on his knee and his rebuff, of salt-crusted hair and tan skin, of blame and cruelty and silence. 

That’s not why, she wants to say. Back then, what that was — they both knew, at the time. It was her trying to do the assignment, trying to be with him the way she was told to. That’s not this. Tonight — that wasn’t like before, she wasn’t doing it because she had to. She wasn’t reminding him of their cover. She wasn’t trying to finish the job. 

She didn’t throw herself at him because it’s nice being touched. Because she hasn’t been _touched_ in so long (not sex, but any touch, any real touch from anyone, in so long), but that’s not it. Not because she needs to get pregnant. Not because she is jealous. 

It’s because she wants him. Because she finds herself wondering these days, if given the choice, would she stay with him. Wondering if she actually wants him, wondering if this isn’t a product of something else, wondering if he is a choice she would have always made, wondering why she is so irrational when it comes to him. 

It’s because, over everything, she adores him. But she doesn’t say this. To adore someone is to be possessed by them, and to be possessed by someone else is not without humiliation, and they both know it.

The job isn’t why she kissed him. Though perhaps, he already knows this too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you ALL for reading and a quick shoutout to everyone who i've become friends with bc they're fans of this and come talk to me about it. that encouragement is really the saving grace of this story. ty!
> 
>   
> There are two stunning fanarts of this chapter: 
> 
> wetwithemotions on tumblr made a [beautiful piece](https://wetwithemotions.tumblr.com/post/637340407006740480/okie-ive-never-actually-sketched-something-and) from the car scene.
> 
> and miinah13 on tumblr made a [stunning picture of shikamaru](https://miinah13.tumblr.com/post/642445160540766208/mr-nara-inspired-by-senbons-and-ill-be-good) and his tie.
> 
> please give them lots of love! i'm so honored!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to emma and carol for being so incredibly steadfast and brilliant through 2020

Temari wakes up again, for the first time in a few months, to Shikamaru sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet planted on the floor, back to her and elbows on his knees. He isn’t moving. His outline is exactly like it always was — his spine and his shoulders and the expanse of his back. 

She watches him for a while. She has no idea what time it is or how long she has been asleep. It’s pitch dark out though, and almost completely silent. 

She falls back asleep facing him and when she does wake up in the morning, he is gone, and has been, she thinks, for some time. 

* * *

Things continue on as normal. 

They wake up, have coffee, argue over dinner plans and which days they should go out with friends or invite over the neighbors, and then generally go about their lives. She watches movies and he works. He sleeps odd hours of the day and, as it gets warmer out, he takes more walks down on the beach or around the docks. 

Temari packs away their coats and boots and takes back out the dresses she’d put away last October. Shikamaru strips the heaviest comforter off the bed and she goes to buy rain boots.

They cook more than they eat out. Shikamaru gets closer to his classmate Chojuro and Temari goes out to a protest with the people she’d met at the university lecture.

Neither discuss the handjob she’d given him in that car. They don’t discuss how she’d kissed him or what she’d wanted. They don’t discuss Kazue Haishi. 

Everything goes back to normal. There is no point in changing any of their habits for such a one-time occurrence.

* * *

By the time he comes home, she is already in bed.

She’s laying under the covers, reading a periodical when he walks in. She doesn’t move from her position, though she is well aware of his entrance. She’s listened for the front door to open and listened for the sounds of his steps. She’s been waiting, counting, since she turned off the live-feed half an hour ago. 

Shikamaru pauses in the doorway, probably looking at her, but she isn’t going to move her eyes off the text to check. 

After a few seconds, he steps in and begins unbuttoning his shirt, walking over to the closet and hanging it up. 

“How was dinner?”

Temari flips a page of the magazine loudly. She’d been out with Haku and Zabuza. “Good. They say hello.”

Shikamaru has been gone all night with Kazue Haishi. They went to the same hotel as two weeks ago. Temari hadn’t accompanied him this time. There was no need. 

“And you?” She finds herself asking, keeping her tone light and only half-interested. “Everything went well?”

Shikamaru comes to sit at the edge of the bed shirtless. He bends over to take off his shoes. He waits before answering, untying his shoes, and then straightening. He stretches, arms raised to the ceiling, and then exhales loudly, slouching his shoulders down as though thoroughly beat. He pulls the tie from his hair and combs his fingers through it, wedding band catching her eye as it moves through dark strands. “Well enough.” He says, still facing the closet, back to her. “Did you hear?”

She had. She’d listened to the whole thing, even though it was much longer tonight. While they went right to it this time without the pretense of dinner, the sex itself lasted longer. And then afterward they talked, for longer. He mostly complained about his marriage. Listening to it, even from the comfort of her home, made her feel dirty. But she had listened. Haishi wants to meet again in a few days. 

“Yes,” Temari says, trying for unaffected. She turns another page even though she hasn’t read a thing. “Of course I did.”

Shikamaru exhales deeply. He must have been holding his breath. And then, without a word, stands up and makes his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. She hears him turn on the shower. 

Temari resumes her reading on this page, filling in whatever she’d missed. 

* * *

“It concerns me,” she says, arms crossed over her chest. “What happens when you have to run away from someone? Or after someone?”

“I’ll run.”

“Not fast enough.”

Shikamaru shrugs, flipping the paper in half to continue reading an article below the fold. “If you say so,” he answers absently, not giving her much attention. 

“You must have worked out before this.” She says this, thinks this, has thought about this for almost a year, but he doesn’t look any different than the day she met him. “Back home. It was always so much. Most of what we did was physical.”

“Sure.”

She doesn't know why she is so stuck on it. She is trying to raise her mileage right now after she went down to only three miles all winter, which has her in a bad mood. And she’s tired. And annoyed, for no real reason. And just now, when she’d walked in to see Shikamaru enjoying his coffee with the morning paper while she is dripping in sweat, with her quads cramping and lungs on fire, she wants to rough him up. 

“So you did exercise?”

There is a pause as Shikamaru, without looking away from the paper, reaches for his coffee and takes a long sip. 

“Not unless I had to, no.”

His general air of ignoring her makes her angrier. It always does. She thinks that’s why he does it. 

“But you have to now, don’t you?”

There is another pause. Then he folds the paper into quarters and drops it on the table, pushing his chair back and standing. She moves aside to let him pass and he goes for the pot to get another cup of coffee. 

“Do I look like I need to workout?” He asks after he’s refilled his mug and has turned to face her, hips pressed back against the counter. 

Temari scoffs, more at Shikamaru’s raised eyebrow than the question itself. If anything, he’s filling out, but it’s a product of having so little fat and naturally larger muscles, nothing pointing toward actual, real strength. He always looks good. She knows this. So does he.

“You know aesthetics are mostly meaningless when it comes to that. You should do something. I am the one who needs to rely on you if something goes wrong.”

He holds his breath, as though thinking about this, even though she knows he’s already thought through all the answer choices.

“Okay,” he concludes. “I will run with you.”

Temari steps back, waving her hands. “No, no. Absolutely not. You’ll slow me down.”

“I thought you wanted me to be in better shape? Better for my heart. Show me.”

She never should have brought it up. She has no idea why she had in the first place. He’s never done anything that would make her doubt any of his capabilities. 

“No.” She shakes her head, feeling the surge on the tip of her tongue. “Running is the only time I have to myself.” She imagines him running beside her down the block. She wants to shake him. Doesn’t he see it too? “I wake up, you’re there. I eat, you’re there. I go to pee or take a shower and for one moment am by myself, but then the second I come out, you’re there. You’re always just _there_! Even upstairs,” she gestures wildly above them, “you’re still _here_!” 

Shikamaru hums at her outburst and takes a sip of his coffee. He looks amused. 

“What do you want me to do, Temari?” 

“You were probably like this back then. Lazy and passive. Never did homework. Laid around all day. I bet you slept through class then too.”

He shrugs. 

“God,” she takes a deep breath. “You’re so annoying.”

He tilts his head. “I was just enjoying my morning cup of coffee and reading the news. I think you’re the one who’s a pain here, interrupting me only to lose an argument.”

“Not an argument. And I didn’t lose — you said you’d do what I wanted.”

“I didn’t say that.” He takes another sip and then licks his lips. “But what _do_ you want, Temari?”

She doesn’t like when he says her name like that. 

“I don’t know.” She sighs, exasperated. She doesn’t know why she’s picked this _disagreement_ either. She should go shower before work. Ignoring him, she begins back through the kitchen to the stairwell, throwing back, “do some push-ups or something.” It means nothing and there is no point to even having brought it up, to having brought _anything_ up, in the first place when it was always going to end this way. 

Behind her, Shikamaru laughs. She supposes he has won.

* * *

“You’re being blackmailed by us.”

Temari lets the wind off the water brush her hair away from her face, whip against her cheeks, and cool against her lips. “Mhm.”

“And you want to turn.” He leans in, as though he is worried she is missing something, as though worried he doesn’t have her attention. “You want to talk.” When Temari doesn’t respond, Shikamaru relents, leaning away and dropping his head to look down at the ducks in the bay. “In principle you’re not a threat. But if they have any sense,” he leans on the railing, letting the bar press against his forearms, “they’ll realize they’ve been burned.” 

They’re early enough to watch the freighters leave the harbor. 

Temari turns around to face the other direction, letting her elbows fall back off the rail, face toward the low sun cresting above the buildings. “They haven’t been burned,” she mutters. “Not yet.”

It’s bright out and she closes her eyes against the glare. 

“I mean—”

“—I know,” she cuts him off. “But don’t be unrealistic. They think I’m a secretary. Less — a cleaning woman. Not someone they’d expect to side with the west. They’re just desperate for someone to turn. They know we have people here and they need a foothold. Trust me, they’ll want to talk.”

“And they have people too. They may already know it’s a set-up.” He sighs, hunching over the bar. “They should at least suspect.” 

Sure. But they probably won’t. They probably don’t.

“Not everyone is like you.” She tips her chin up, facing the sky fully, letting the sun beat on her skin. She’s paler than she’s ever been in her life. Once it’s warm enough to be on the beach, she’ll go every day. 

The beaches here aren’t as nice (too crowded) as those in Jiro, but she finds herself missing them anyway; missing the water she’d never even really been around. 

“Analytical?” 

She hums. “Pessimistic.”

Shikamaru groans and turns around to copy her position leaning back against the railing overlooking the pier. “You should be careful.” He exhales. “That’s all I mean.”

They didn’t create the set-up. They didn’t design it. This location, her confirmation code, the time — they didn’t choose any of it. If they had, Shikamaru wouldn’t be so nervous. But he shouldn’t be. This will most likely play well. 

“People are predictable.” And it’s not like they aren’t taking precautions. “Watch. I’m not a threat to them. I’m too desperate to raise suspicion.”

“Fine.” He intones after a moment. “You’re probably right.”

They stay out like that for another twenty minutes until it’s time to drive out to the far end of the docks. 

* * *

Temari stands on the wood, the wind sweeping her dress and trench coat around her knees. She has curly blonde hair for this and large glasses and her calves, bare in the wind, are freezing even though it’s sunny out. 

She clutches a briefcase tightly to her chest and turns back and forth, nervous, on the lookout for the man who is supposed to approach her. 

All in all, it is supposed to happen pretty quickly. Someone will come up, she’ll give her script and he will give his, and then she will hand him the case. He’ll take it and give nothing back. They’ll be in contact later. And then Shikamaru will follow him. That’s all. It’s always easy like that, always something straightforward, when it goes wrong. 

Someone approaches from the north, walking without looking at her, and then slows when he comes near. He’s younger than she expects, and he looks wary. Above her, seagulls cry as they fly past.

“Good morning,” he says, lowered. “You look cold.” 

“Don’t worry, I have a jacket.” She says, halting at the wrong parts, nervous, like she has never done this before. 

The man keeps moving, like he might just walk past her. “Stay warm.”

Temari exhales in a gust, as though greatly relieved, as though safe. 

“Please,” she breathes, extending her hands, “take this.”

He does. 

She’s playing it fine, all the blackmailed-woman-who-never-meant-to-get-in-over-her-head. 

“I, uh,” she stammers as the man turns, “sorry. Uh. Good—”

But before she can finish the sentence, from his hip he’s pulled an automatic and shot her. Three times in quick succession. 

Temari falls down. Faster, she thinks, than last time. In some ways, it hurts more. Like a punch, sharp and strong to the gut. 

When she can focus, hardly as the breath was knocked from her lungs, there are stars in the corner of her vision. She’s on her butt on the dock, hunched over, clutching for a nonexistent wound, unable to inhale. It hurts so badly. _Fuck_. 

And the guy is gone. She can see him, running down the pier, far now. Too far, by the time Shikamaru is bending over her. Wasn’t he only feet away? What took him so long? He should be chasing the man!

He leans in, saying her name, but she waves her arm, pushing him away, trying to get enough air to speak. 

“Hit — kevlar — _go_!”

And then Shikamaru is gone and Temari, as quickly as she can, stands up. The first few steps are hard, each movement of her leg vibrating up in her stomach, but she rallies soon enough and makes it back to the car where Shikamaru had left it running when he ran out to her. 

How does this possibly hurt more than _actually_ getting shot? 

Temari has a gun strapped to her thigh and she pulls it out, dropping it on the passenger seat, before putting the car in drive and pulling off the clutch to follow the direction they’d been going in. 

Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck!

Why did this happen? How? Everything was planned, it was supposed to just be an easy drop… the beginning of a new relationship. 

God, this hurts. Fucking— 

She speeds down the road, eyes trained on the pier and the boardwalk, but she sees no sign of them. Could they have run this far? She’s in a more pedestrian area now. There are people out, more people on morning jogs or walking their dogs. 

Ah, it hurts to breathe. She wants to close her eyes. But she keeps driving, trying to keep her gaze out for the cap Shikamaru is wearing, for the light hair of the man who’d shot her. 

It’s over five minutes before she catches Shikamaru. She’s turned around, having driven further than they could have run, and is on the way back when she sees him climb up from a stairwell that leads down to the beach. He’s surrounded by people. 

He sees her and goes straight for the car. Temari grabs her gun and puts it in her lap.

“Lost him,” Shikamaru breathes before he’s even fully opened the door. He closes it quickly and she pulls out of there fast. “Are you safe?”

She checks the mirrors again. She hasn’t seen anything, but she hasn’t been diligent. 

“I think so,” she looks around. “There will be more cars in the main lot.”

“We should go further.”

“Too business,” Temari says, struggles to say, pulling a U-turn to head to the main beach turn-off. Right now there are a dozen or so cars parked, in stark comparison to the ten dozen that will be here this time of day once summer hits, but she pulls in here anyway and drops off Shikamaru. 

He says nothing, slipping out of the car as easily as he’d come in and closing the door behind him. She doesn’t watch to see which car he’s going to choose. She leaves before he’s even a step away, going straight for downtown where the nearest transit hub is. 

* * *

It’s over an hour before Temari makes it to the safe house. She’d switched buses twice and it’d taken her a while to find a payphone after that, so that by the time she gets there, everyone else has already arrived. She walks slowly into the house. If she walks too fast, she’ll have to limp, which’ll draw attention.

It hurts to untie her jacket, but she’d had to tie it up to hide the bullet holes. And it’s worse to take off. She can’t even lift her arms up to get the dress off and the doctor ends up cutting it away. 

“Lay down,” he says, and Shikamaru walks with her to the bedroom. It’s a sparse house. There is some basic furniture. She wonders if, at some other point in the future, she’ll ever need to come back here. 

Temari lays down on the floral bedspread, legs extended. Her toes look blurry. Since when is vision-loss a side-effect of pain? In the doorway, Hinoto and Shikamaru watch silently as the doctor undoes her vest. It hurts to move, hurts to take it off, and she groans the whole time. It’s her ribs, she thinks, that are bad. But her whole chest, her stomach… it all hurts. 

“Here,” the doctor says, handing her a pill. “For the pain.”

Shikamaru has a glass of water. He must have been holding it and she just hadn’t noticed, and he comes to kneel on the floor so his head is level with hers. 

Temari swallows the pill and leans back. 

Shikamaru puts the water down. The doctor puts his fingers on her body, prodding lightly on her belly, though the painkiller hasn’t come close to kicking in. Temari shuts her eyes and grits her teeth against it. Shikamaru leans closer, bringing his hand to cover her face, pushing her hair back and holding his palm flat on her forehead, as though checking for a fever. He doesn’t move it though, he just holds her down until she opens her eyes and is forced to focus in on him. His eyes are dark, his gaze kind. 

She’s sweating. It’s cold, but she can feel the moisture on her face and her back and her neck. It’s just the pain though. The pain of walking here. The pain of bearing through it. 

“Bullshit,” Hinoto is muttering from the doorway, and Temari looks past Shikamaru to her. She’s shaking her head, taking short breaths, arms crossed over her chest. “This is bullshit.”

The doctor presses, this time higher on her stomach and Temari makes a pained noise in surprise. 

“What were they thinking?” Hinoto asks no one, words coming out quick. She looks glamorous as always, even first thing in the morning, wearing a gray pantsuit and her red pearl earrings that so often match her lipstick. “I’m furious.” Her nostrils flare. She has sunglasses on her head and, as the painkiller starts to take some hold, Temari wonders, as she often does, what Hinoto actually does during the day. “I’m going to make some calls.” Hinoto announces and turns sharply out of the room. 

Shikamaru laughs and brushes his hand back over Temari’s forehead, resettling in the same position. 

He looks down at her stomach. 

“You’ve broken two, maybe three ribs,” the doctor announces. “From what I can see. We now need to know if any of them have punctured your lung.”

“It’s already pretty bruised,” Shikamaru says to her, eyes narrowed. “I can see it, a bit. There is a bump on your side, coming out of your torso. They look badly broken, if that’s your bone poking out.”

“Yes,” the doctor says as he readies his stethoscope. “I think at least two are broken straight through. Vests weaken with each shot. It’s a fluke none of them went through. You’re lucky.” 

Temari huffs and reaches up, bending at the elbow to push Shikamaru’s hand away from her. 

“I can’t believe I’ve been shot twice now and you not once.” He laughs again as he lets go of her forehead. “That’s supremely unfair.”

“Weren’t you just saying something about people being predicable?”

“Mm,” she says, getting less coherent now, things getting just a little fuzzy. “Yeah.” Her eyelids flutter, but she works to bring him back into focus. “See? You’re always the worst. Though,” she groans as the doctor lifts her up a few inches to put the stethoscope against her back, “that’s less predictability than just consistency.”

Shikamaru smiles as he looks at her, only stepping away when Hinoto calls out for him. 

* * *

Temari has to call out of work for a few days after that, which makes her bitter. Last time she was on bedrest, she spent those first few days (meaning those days of bedrest that legitimately meant not leaving the bed) so out of her mind, she had no conception of the passage of time. But now, she’s on a much lower dose of medication and is mostly just made to sit in one position even though it makes her antsy. To move though, even to take too deep a breath, is painful and a strong reminder of why she is meant to stay in bed in the first place. The hard bandages wrapped around her entire ribcage help, however nominally, her newly set bones from shifting, but those too are uncomfortable and cut into her skin. 

Shikamaru says it’s more to actively remind her not to move, as without an actual cast to hold them in place, some bandaging isn’t going to keep them from growing back incorrectly. Either way, it results in her being uncomfortable: a combination of lightheaded and lethargic in her limbs, and stupidly-rigid in her torso.

All she does all day is sit in bed. She reads some. Eventually, she spends hours endlessly on the couch, though even the movement up and down the stairs requires a lot of commitment and takes an embarrassing amount of time. She can’t work from home for security reasons, so there is nothing for her to do. And she can’t move enough to contribute to anything around the house or do any work for Hinoto. 

So Temari sits. And waits. And grows bored. More bored than she has ever been in her life. Nothing to note. Nothing new and nothing interesting. Only time. And stillness. 

* * *

When Shikamaru is home, even though he usually doesn’t bother her too much, she tries to occupy as much of his attention as she can. She talks to him and keeps talking, saying nothing important. Sometimes he tells her she’s a bother, but even then, he’ll stay in the living room to do his work instead of going up to the office. 

They play a lot of shogi. He wins, always, but she gets closer, she thinks (he doesn’t seem to think so). 

She spends a lot of time, especially when they’re playing or when he is doing his work before her, watching his face. She knows it by now. She’s seen him make all sorts of expressions. She sees him every day. 

But she focuses more now, for extended periods of time. She watches the lines, watches the way he concentrates, the faces he makes and has always made since the day she met him. She spends a lot of time reflecting on their meeting and trying to remember what she thought and what he said as they walked through the sculpture garden. She spends a lot of time on that. She thinks about him all the time. 

It’s mostly a product of having nothing else to do. So when she thinks of the future or just the world outside generally, when she thinks of things she will say and things that may happen, she imagines how he will react and what he will find entertaining. 

She thinks through the inconsistencies in him — and there are many; after all, he is full of them. He’s meticulous and organized and likes things to be a certain way, but he is also lazy and reluctant to do anything. He’s overly emotional and feels things strongly, but he is also hard to rile. He’s too soft, but he’s also too cold. 

During the time she sits there, eyes sore from staring at the tv and too tired to read comprehensively, she closes her eyes and categorizes these out. She tries to figure him out, tries to make sense of the parts of him she doesn’t understand. 

Though it’s not clean cut. She knows he too works hard to figure her out. She knows last week she was absolutely livid about how she had to _see_ him every day and now she spends all day waiting for his appearance. And yet she still hates him.

If she were back home, if she were anywhere else, she might ask someone. She’s always been very private _with_ her private life. She’s never really announced that she is seeing anyone or announced if she is interested in someone. But now, when she lacks that availability, she is desperate for a second opinion. There is no one in her life, really, bar Hinoto (who will never be an option), that knows about her and Shikamaru. It’s isolating.

There is no one who _can_ know her, who is even allowed to understand this relationship, except for Shikamaru. 

It’s because of that, and time, mostly, that she doesn’t think of him as _other_ anymore — that is something she realizes towards the end of the week. It used to be, for a long time, that she represented Suna against Kiri, and he, Konoha against Kiri. They had a mutual purpose, but they weren’t _together_. She thinks of them as together now. She thinks of him as her ally. As her partner. She’s said it before, of course, but she’d never really meant it. Not like this. They are in _this_ together and she feels that now. Shikamaru is, in almost every way, the only person she can be herself around. The only person in her day-to-day life that knows she isn’t Temari Nara. 

She isn’t sure when she started feeling this way. There is no ability to pin-point it — at one point, the only important thing they had together was a common enemy, and now, the most important thing they have together is each other. 

These are some of the things Temari notices on her days of bedrest. 

* * *

When she isn’t with Shikamaru, when she is trying not to think of him, she will spend the rest of her time thinking about Suna. 

She misses it So Much. Especially when she is here, stuck in this house, in this home, unable to distract herself and fill her days with other things. 

She has a fondness, in a way, for her street in Kiri, for her house, for the life she is building. She likes her clothes mostly, her refrigerator, the coffee shop she frequents; the mechanic who takes the same bus as her most mornings. These things belong to her (even as Mrs. Nara), and so she enjoys them, in some indefinable way. But when she thinks about the fact that this is it, this is all it will ever be — that’s when she hates it. 

All of it. Shikamaru. Her bed. Her clothes. The food she eats and the newspaper she reads. 

She has never been away so long now. She spends hours and hours trying to remember things. She tries to remember her apartment. She remembers the academy. She traces out the layout of the building and remembers her years and years of walking in there, of some specific instances of walking in the main entrance (the ones where she had a conversation outside the doors or when was struggling to carry something) that she can recall.

It’s a vicious cycle. On the one hand, the further she gets away from Suna, the more she pushes it from her mind, the more she will actually forget. And it’s a memory that can never be jogged, something that, once forgotten, can never be remembered, solely because she will never come into a situation where she will be prompted to. She will never return to Suna — the people, the places, the culture, the life; she will never see the academy again. She will not run into an old friend and rekindle past connections and anecdotes over wine. She will forget all these things and then all of it will be gone forever. On the other hand, when she does forget, everything will be easier. She will be able to move on, perhaps, in a way she can’t now. 

She is torn. She wants Suna, so badly, but she also wants to stop the constant itch of it in her stomach, in the base of her skull, the feeling always crawling along her skin… the _feeling_ of Suna. Everywhere she goes, in every person she meets and likes, in each good moment she has, she feels its absence like a hole in her heart. She’s fine, she’s _fine_. She doesn’t spend every day in mourning. She doesn’t exist in a constant state of grief. But it’s still always there, like a light tug on her hair or a slight movement in the corner of her eye. 

One morning, in a panic of how little she suddenly feels she remembers, she goes into the office and sits on the floor, pushing aside Shikamaru’s papers for a blank sheet and then, quickly, manic, she writes down the names of every person on her floor on the Kiri desk. She draws a blueprint of the office. She writes down names and seats. She writes a manifest of her old classmates. She tries to think of one interaction with each of them. She works to picture them how they were, how they surely are in this moment, as she struggles to bring them into being while they sit in the same office hundreds of miles away going about their day. Some, maybe, have already forgotten about her. Or have hardly realized that she’s gone. It’s how life continues, of course. They will think of her, if they think of her at all, as just an old coworker, and, conversely, Temari will work to keep them close to her for the rest of her life as a lifeline to her home.

But she is already missing things (surely was even before she came to Kiri). She knows there are twenty people in her graduating class and yet she only has sixteen names. 

But she also remembers some things with the trigger of recalling a name. She remembers a boy touching her lower back once, probably accidentally, as he passed her, and how she developed a crush on him after that. She remembers a woman who sat next to her during lectures, and though they never spoke outside of class, Temari still remembers that the woman always had beautiful handwriting that Temari wanted to emulate. 

She writes down these things, these little comments and lists, until her hand cramps. She writes until her stomach growls. She writes until her pen runs out of ink, until her morning dose of pain medication starts to wear off.

She wants to put it all down. She thinks about how most people can see someone later in life and be reminded of a story from when they were young, and how she will never have that. She will never have anyone or anything from her past…. And so she does this. She writes and writes and writes. 

And then, once she has put everything she can put to paper in this moment, she takes the sheets down to the kitchen and burns them each, one by one, over the stove. 

Temari doesn’t open the window or turn on the vents above the burners. She lets the smoke get in her eyes as she watches, attention rapt, while all her words, all her memories, disappear in the flames. Maybe she will do this again. Maybe she will remember different things. Maybe she will remember less. Maybe she will never want to try to remember again. 

She doesn’t clean up the remaining ashes for quite some time.

* * *

Temari pulls down a book from the shelf to see the rim of an ear, the sweep of brown hair back from a face. 

“It _is_ difficult,” Tenten says softly, and Temari watches through the hole in the shelf she created as Tenten walks further down the aisle, stopping occasionally to glance at book titles. “All of it. Everything. What we do, what we’re asked to do.” She turns the corner, wandering into Temari’s aisle, looking at books down the other shelf from Temari. 

Temari pauses, looking at Tenten out of the corner of her eye. She wants to ask, but she feels it is too invasive, too naïve. She wants to know though. And she’s never been hesitant, even when it comes to private matters which she generally believes are better left alone. 

“Are you…?” Temari begins, turning her gaze more fully to the shelf before her. She doesn’t finish the question, hoping Tenten can make sense of what she means without the impotence of verbalizing it.

Tenten takes a long breath. They’re almost back to back in the aisle now, both looking toward separate shelves, though all of Temari’s attention is on the impending words. 

“You can’t be.” Tenten answers after a moment. “Not really.” 

It’s what Temari has always known, it’s what she has felt for a very long time. But, deep down, despite its irrationality, she was hoping for a different answer. 

“I’d choose Neji any chance I got,” Tenten continues, voice quieter. “At any point.” Temari turns around in time to see Tenten smile, slightly, to herself. “He’s the one for me.” But then Tenten too turns around so they’re facing each other. “When you have a partnership, in any way, you love them. Even if that love is the marriage, the partnership, itself — the work you’ve done and the children you will have — instead of love for that person.” Tenten stop, looks down. “And I do worry, sometimes, that that is what I feel.”

She turns back and pulls a book out with one finger on top of the spine. She holds it her hands and flips through a few pages. 

Temari watches carefully. 

She doesn’t know what it is. She doesn’t know what she wants. Shikamaru thinks, if he thinks about it at all, that once she got sexually frustrated and took it out on him. She’s mostly sure that is his explanation for that time she kissed him, back when she climbed into his lap and jerked him off. The rest, the easy flirtation and the occasional sexual innuendoes, are all him just humoring her. 

She knows she wants him more than that. She has known that for a long time. But she doesn’t know what more she does want. And she does worry — she thinks about it all the time — how much of a decision it is hers to make. She thinks she would want him even if he weren’t forced on her (she believes it, but she wavers too). Would it be this strong (how could it? it’s never been like this before when she was able to choose) if it were anyone else?

“I don’t know how honest you can be when you weren’t given a choice.” Tenten continues, closing the book and putting it back on the shelf. Temari hasn’t said anything, but she knows Tenten must have thought the same thing. “But I also think that there is always some choice, even in him.” She sighs, and walks further down the aisle, away from Temari, keeping her eyes down. “But honestly, Temari, I don’t think I know any more than you. I mostly try to be a good operative and a good partner. I don’t like to think about things that I cannot change.”

“It’s been over five years for you,” Temari says, turning back to her own shelf. 

“And soon it will be for you too. And then ten. And then twenty.”

Tenten stops at the end of the aisle holding a book she’d grabbed a few paces back. 

“Temari,” she says gently, waiting for Temari to turn and look. “This is _your_ life. Does it matter if you would feel otherwise in another setting? That you may? I know Shikamaru. I knew him before you did— when he was just a kid. He doesn’t exactly fade into the background. Not academically.” She tilts her head, pauses, and then blinks. “What I mean to say is, he’s not easily swayed. He can make his own decisions. So you should do what you want to. Live your life, in the ways you can, how _you_ want to. It’s yours.”

“You make it sound easy.”

Tenten looks away. “It’ll never be easy.” Temari watches as she sighs again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” Then she smiles and looks back up, meeting Temari’s gaze. “I’m going to go check out this book.” They are in the library branch closest to Tenten’s after all. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Temari stays another few minutes pretending to look at the shelves.

* * *

Things will change when they have children. 

That part is hard to believe — it’s no surprise, she’s always known it, of course — but now that she stands before him and thinks about that part (the actual reality of the child), she is daunted. 

There will be a child. A real child. A _person_ , with thoughts and feelings and a perception of the world and of their home. 

Shikamaru will be the father. And she will be the mother. This child will look to them as parents. This child will consider them a _family_. 

How crazy is that?! 

Everything will change. They will have so many more responsibilities than their day-to-day lives right now. 

There are things parents do — things she will do, things _he_ will do for their child: helping with homework after dinner at the table, driving to after-school clubs and to friends’ houses, putting sunscreen on skinny backs and pulling splinters out of toes, saying something and having them look at her and Shikamaru as though nothing is not in their purview, as though they are _everything_. 

They will be real people. Real people with real experiences. And she will be their mother. 

But kids are a cover. They’ll come first, of course — she’ll send the children back to Suna and they’ll always be taken in if anything happens to her — but they are a cover. That’s foremost. She really has no choice in them. 

They serve multiple purposes — they are less suspicious as potential spies if they have children, but it also binds them together. It reinforces some old conception that, because of their children, she will not betray Shikamaru, and thus, she will not betray Suna. 

But they will be her children. They will come from her body. They will be made up of her. 

And while that is both daunting and wondrous, she is also horrified. They will be sons and daughters of Kirigakure. Of the Water Lands. They will think of her — of their _mother and father_ — as citizens of Kiri! She hates that! She hates it here. She wants to be home. She doesn’t want to raise her children here. She doesn’t want them to think that this is _good_. 

Or worse, maybe — they’ll think of Suna as _bad_. And it’s not as though children can be trusted (especially children from here, children who will never understand real consequences and hardship) for her to actually teach them well. Shikamaru must maintain a government position. She can’t teach them in secret, can’t sway their beliefs correctly. Not only can she never _show_ them the wonders of her home, she can never _tell_ them about Suna either. 

It’s not a surprise. It’s _not_. But now that she sees that possibility, readily acknowledges its near future, she feels sick. 

How much of a parent can she be when everything she does is a lie? Her children will be, her marriage, her job, and her name — all of it is false. 

Temari stops. She’s been thinking this way too often these past few weeks.

She needs to leave the house. She needs to get away from white walls and stupidly paved driveways and un-smeared lipstick. She needs to get away from Shikamaru and from Hinoto and from stupid cryptanalyses messages and from Kazue Haishi and from her job. 

She is mad at everything. She hates everything. She wants to go home. She wants her own children. Her own husband. Her own family and her own choice. 

It’s so hard to fight for something you struggle to remember.

* * *

With her ribs still healing, it hurts too much to sit in the bath and to move in and out of it, so she showers. She can wash her own hair, only it hurts to move too much, so once she lifts her arms, they stay like that for a long time, washing the shampoo in and then back out, long enough that they ache. 

She stays in the shower for a long time once she is finished, standing there, leaning her shoulders against one wall, and letting the water spray on her skin. 

She hopes it’ll run cold. She hopes that Shikamaru comes back soon so that when he showers, it will be ice on his skin. He’ll still shower, probably, but he won’t enjoy it. 

In her week at home, he hadn’t gone to meet Kazue Haishi once. But now she is back at work. And so, he is too. 

It’s only work, she knows. But she still thinks about what he is doing now. She’ll listen to the recording later. Or maybe she’ll just pretend she did until Shikamaru brings it up, which he won’t do unless Haishi has said something of interest. He’s been there for a long time. They’re probably fucking by now. 

Absently, Temari puts her fingers to her lips, remembering what it was like to kiss him. 

It doesn’t take long for the water to get cold. She gets out when the water runs lukewarm no matter how high she turns the dial. There is no point. Shikamaru could be home at any time. And she isn’t that petty. Probably. Mostly. 

She does stand in front of the shower in her towel and, although well used to closing the curtain now at his pressure, she purposefully pulls it back. She looks at it, opened and cramped in the corner of the shower, and feels satisfied. 

When he comes back hours later, the lights are out and she pretends to sleep. But she listens as he walks through the room, quietly slipping off his shoes and undoing his buckle, pulling off his pants. She listens, breath paced, as he walks into the bathroom where she hears a muffled, “ _fuck_ , Temari,” and a sharp closing of the shower curtain before he turns on the water himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (long line reimagined from pow)  
> happy happy new year!  
> thank you all so much for reading!! you're all unbelievable and i'm so incredibly happy to have you


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter comes so quickly because of the amazing efforts of my betas, so join me in thanking them and sending lots of love to em and carol

She doesn’t think on it actively. She doesn’t sit down and try to come to a solution. She tries not to work on it too hard when she knows the conclusion she must come to. All does is spend time, in passing, mulling over the possibilities. She does so over weeks, slowly, carefully, and only to herself. She never says anything.

After all, what can she _really_ say? Mostly, she thinks that there is nothing for her to say to him. In the end, not even _she_ knows what she feels, and, more importantly, it doesn’t really matter. It would change nothing. It would only make her weaker.

Possession _is_ humiliating.

But she also thinks about him all the time. And she wants the opportunity to choose him solely because she knows she would… except she wouldn’t. Over other men, maybe, but not over her job.

As much as she struggles, even as she loathes Kiri and enjoys parts of her life in turn, she isn’t doubting Suna. She doesn’t. She _did_ choose, once — she chose _this_.

Still, sometimes, usually when Shikamaru is out and she is home alone, or when she takes the bus to work and has time to daydream, she fantasizes about what she might say, what she might do; what might happen if she acts.

Stupid things, mostly… things that could never happen. That _would_ never happen.

Sometimes she imagines that Suna and Konoha will break their alliance and then they will be forced to actually choose the other and _they would_. She is scared, sometimes, that the peace and common objectives between their two countries will shatter and that she and Shikamaru will bear the cost. After all, Suna is Suna. It isn’t Konoha. Both places have similarities, both have fought together before, but they have also been enemies. And when it comes down to it, if an alternative deal exists, their alliance will sever. Both countries will _always_ choose their own prosperity and well-being over an international loyalty. Likewise, she represents one side and he represents another.

But what if they ask her to kill him? Ask him to kill her?

She knows the answer, of course.

She will always choose Suna over Shikamaru.

But she fantasizes (waywardly and with no genuine desire, the way one fantasizes about their own funeral or their reaction in an apocalypse) about choosing him solely at her own discretion, solely because she _wants_ to. And always, in these hypotheticals, he wants her to too. She doesn’t _want_ this to happen, but if it does, then at least she _could_ make a choice — and when she is imagining it, when she is playing it out in her head while looking out the bus window, she does pretend she would choose him just because she had the option to.

But then, when he is before her, she has nothing to say. Or perhaps too much to.

Most things are too far. Things she can’t mean, promises she can never make. Most things she has no idea how to express. Mostly, she thinks they shouldn’t be said.

It’s no bother, really, in the end. It’s easy to contemplate things on the bus ride or while alone on the couch, but those things are meaningless in the scheme of everything else. She will never choose him and, despite what she finds herself hoping, he will never choose her. He can’t, even if he might want to.

* * *

His side of the bed is empty when she wakes up.

She hadn’t realized that she’d fallen asleep in the first place, so it’s actually a surprise to not find him there when she looks over. She’s been tossing all night, stuck in a perpetual half-sleep, eyes heavy but heart pounding and mind racing. She’s too hot under the covers, her thighs sticking together, and too cold when she kicks them off.

Finally, when she does purposefully give up the fight and fully open her eyes, rolling onto her back, there is no sign of Shikamaru.

He must have been silent. She must have actually nodded off for at least a few seconds at some point.

Temari stares up at the ceiling. She hasn’t been sleeping well all week.

The clock by Shikamaru’s side gives the time at three am.

Slowly, careful to press up without twisting her side too much — she’s mobile, but still weak —, she sits and slides out of bed, stretching her legs, shaking her head, and rubbing her eyes.

The office door isn’t closed and the light emitted brightens the hall, making every floorboard visible.

Shikamaru is sitting on the floor inside, legs crossed as he taps his index finger on top of whatever notes he is making. He’s wearing a sweater, but is otherwise in his pajamas, hair pulled back half-heartedly.

There is a creak when she stops in the doorway and leans against the frame, arms crossed over her chest.

He glances up for a second, surprised, and then goes back to writing something on his notepad. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Temari looks at him. He doesn’t look tired at all. He looks boyish and handsome and reliable. There are papers spread before him. His bare toes catch her eye.

Her breath catches.

“I hate when you go there.” She says shortly. She isn’t sure where it comes from. She hadn’t meant to say it. It’s hardly even been on her mind until she looked at him.

Shikamaru frowns slightly and turns his head more fully to face her.

“I hate it.” She repeats, the words rough on her tongue. “I hate seeing her, speaking with her, being kind to her, when I know your cock was just inside her.”

There is a pause. It’s tight. She can feel it in the air, can see it in his shoulders. Then he exhales, annoyed, probably more at the vulgarity than anything else.

There is no reason for her to be saying this now. He’s been working Kazue Haishi for weeks now, for multiple months. Nothing has changed. Except that Haishi has taken long lunches multiple times this week. And every time she comes back, somehow, Temari finds herself having to go speak with the woman about something work-related.

“Easy for you.” She continues. “You just do the work. I have to _see_ her and pretend like you just didn’t.”

Shikamaru looks down, but doesn’t speak right away. His hand is gripping his pen and his knuckles are growing white. She doesn’t know what she wants him to say, but it _is_ something. She wants him to respond.

When it comes, the words are short and staccato. He’s angry. He’s still looking down. “I don’t like it either, Temari. It’s too dangerous for us.” He takes a deep breath. “And it’s not easy. It’s hard. It’s hard. And when you’re listening — it’s harder than it’s ever been. I don’t know why.”

Oh.

She shouldn’t be here, commenting on anything about what he is doing. But he shouldn’t have said that either. It was too far.

“Shikamaru, you—”

“I know.” He snaps, all rage beneath his still demeanor. “But it was harder to do when I knew you could hear. That’s all.” He takes another breath. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Temari watches.

She doesn’t know why she is baiting him, why she is pushing it. She doesn’t know why she is speaking so dangerously after he had just articulated the extent of their conversation (and he had put a boundary on it, hadn’t he? he’d put himself too far and pulled back, showing her the extent he was willing to go).

But she likes when he gets angry. She likes when he gives her something to work against. That’s it, maybe. Or it is just too late and she is just too tired. Or maybe she is angry herself. Or maybe, possibly, she means it. Maybe, she just wants to know too much to stop herself.

“What do you think about?”

It’s different right away. Even the way she has said it, and she can feel the rise in the cut of her mouth, the danger resting on the edge of it, waiting, impatient, precarious, on the answer itself.

Shikamaru turns his head slowly to look at her, unamused.

She shouldn’t have said anything at all — not since the moment she got out bed and went to find him, not since she saw him sitting here with bare feet. Not one word should have ever come out of her mouth. None of it. But, more than all that before, she _certainly_ should not have said this.

Still, the anticipation of it, the challenge she’s posed, the annoyance in his gaze… it makes her stomach tight; sends electricity down to her fingertips and locks her knees.

He’s silent for a long time, long enough that in any other situation, she would have followed up or long assumed he wasn’t going to answer. But now she stays, waiting, just in case. Hoping. Not backing down.

Finally, after minutes, he relents, shoulders dropping.

It’s gentle, the way he looks at her now, honest, his form looser.

“Her,” he says carefully, hardly breathing. “Sometimes. But, Temari.” He smiles then, looking down, mouth sheepish and vaguely reluctant. “I’ve never been so turned on — scared, but turned on — as I was that first night we moved in when you yelled at me all the way across the kitchen.” He laughs, softly, to himself. “I think about that too.”

Temari feels the weight of it, of what he’s said and the way it makes her want to smile, of the memory of hatred and desire and interest and the way he’d pushed back.

She knows that he’s saying this now mostly just to back down, to stop the fight before it’s begun, to keep the conversation from going where she was daring it to, but it doesn’t make it any less potent.

“That’s embarrassing,” she says, acquiescing to his unspoken request, but she feels like she’s choking on it. “You probably shouldn’t tell people that story.”

Shikamaru smirks and sighs, letting his shoulders drop further, turning his attention back to the page before him. He’s always been good at compartmentalizing like that. He taps his pen against the paper in a rhythm she doesn’t recognize.

She probably never should have interrupted him in the first place.

* * *

“If I had to choose a favorite piece,” Hinoto says, “this would be it.”

“A piece?”

“Of machinery.”

Temari steps away. “I understood.”

They’re in the aviation museum on a Saturday morning in early May. Temari has never understood why Hinoto proposes they meet at museums. Perhaps she too is interested in learning about the history of Kiri. Or perhaps she simply thinks Temari is.

It’s more crowded than she’d expected. After all, the aviation museum, in a city not known for its innovations in flight, is not where she would expect many people to come explore, especially as the weather is warming up, but it’s busy now. She can’t even hear her shoes click on the linoleum over the buzz of the crowd as she circles a plane, one made a few decades ago, that’s on display. It’s hot in here. Her cardigan is folded and hanging off her forearms in front of her.

“How’s the rib?”

“Rib _s_.” Temari clarifies. She’s circled the plane now and is back before her handler. “They’re healing well.”

“I have something for you this week.”

“You going to get me shot again?”

Hinoto looks over at her, eyes narrowed, but she doesn’t say anything to it.

“There’s an active source who has been a little too antsy. I need you to check in on him.”

Temari nods, turning around and beginning to walk over to a wall displaying old photographs of military pilots in training. Some of these men probably killed her own. But, surely, some in these photo are no longer alive today because of Suna.

“How is it going at the labs?” Hinoto asks, following behind her, voice low and sexy, as always.

Temari takes in one photograph of two young men with their arms around each other in grainy sepia.

“You should be asking him.” She says plainly, beginning to walk down the line, feeling her dress brush around her knees. “It’s not my assignment.”

“Isn’t it?”

Temari shrugs, not turning back to look at Hinoto following her.

Hinoto is quiet for a while after that, stopping more often to look at pictures. Eventually Temari finds herself waiting for the older woman and then, once Hinoto decides to move into another, smaller room, following her there.

“Do you remember,” Hinoto begins once they’re in the next room, “when you asked why he was here with you instead of working the code desks?”

Temari, surprised, stops in her tracks, blinking as Hinoto turns and settles dark eyes on her.

“It’s because he is stronger in the field than behind a desk. He sees the bigger picture, both sides. Fire has always liked him.” Hinoto tilts her head, her entire body casual, but she is betrayed by her eyes as they pierce hard on Temari, calculating. “He was being geared for a much higher position. They wanted him in office, back in the homeland. He fought against it. He didn’t want to theorize, he wanted to get his hands in.”

Hinoto stops, but it’s pointless, because she is solely waiting for Temari to ask the logical question they both know is coming.

She’s always known Shikamaru would have been more use to Konoha if he’d stayed. He always seemed to prefer his cryptanalysis work over being in the field. And when they were in the field, it wasn’t as though he were creating battle plans or large-scale operations. They went after small-fish. Easy assignments, generally no longer than a few days. Their draw was their cover, their entrenched history as Kiri citizens, and thus their accessibility to the country.

Almost anyone could perform a honeypot. He could be doing so much more.

And if Konoha wanted him to stay, it didn’t matter what he wanted.

Temari won’t ask it though — she knows Hinoto is waiting, but she holds her tongue.

Hinoto sighs, eventually, and looks away. Her gaze is so strong, Temari had inadvertently been holding her breath, waiting for Hinoto to break contact.

“They let him come, allowed him to stay in the field, because you were going to be here.”

Temari frowns and looks down at Hinoto’s shoulder, her neck. What is she saying? What does she mean? “If you’re going to say something,” she mutters, “just say it.”

Hinoto makes a noise. “You were always going to be here. You were never going to be satisfied if you didn’t give absolutely everything to your county.” She looks back at Temari, looking older and powerful in the greater knowledge she is bestowing. “You’re a soldier, Temari, through and through. You’d set yourself on fire to protect your home.” Hinoto pauses and takes a step forward. “You want vengeance. You’ve been groomed for this your whole life. Suna has always wanted you for this. _You_ wanted this. Shikamaru doesn’t.”

Temari blinks. Holds her breath. Straightens her shoulders.

Her mouth is dry.

“He wants peace,” Hinoto continues without break. “He doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t hate them. Not like we do.”

“ _We_ have nothing in common.” Temari spits, low and under her breath.

Hinoto tilts her head again as though considering the comment, but she neither defends nor denies it.

“He was meant to balance you out, to strengthen the bond between our countries. He’s meant to rein you in.”

Temari takes one to step closer this time, resisting the urge to grab Hinoto by the collar of her jacket. She fists her hands in her own sweater, holding it tightly against her stomach. She’s rigid, tight with fury, cramping in her calves.

“I’m not a wild horse to be tamed,” she says sharply. “I’m not some psychopath. I don’t want to _hurt_ people.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I follow orders, Hinoto.” She huffs in disbelief of what she is hearing. “Just like you do. I do what _you_ tell me to.”

“You shouldn’t always. That’s why Shikamaru is here. But be careful, Temari. You’re hard. You’re so strong. If you’re not careful, he’ll soften you out.”

Temari exhales sharply and turns her body around in a snap, walking away, back into the first, main room of the museum. There are enough people milling about that she has to dodge them as she stalks past, cleanly and with no thought except the containment of her rage against the woman. Against Shikamaru. Against everyone.

It’s only seconds and then there is a hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her back.

“You know nothing about me,” Temari spits before she has even turned around. “I read the dossier. I was chosen as a _body_. So was he. We were filling in roles already written.”

Hinoto pulls her hand back, manicured nails sharp. The look she is giving Temari is unreadable.

What is this? Why had Hinoto spoken in the first place? To spur discontent? To keep Temari on her toes? To put a wedge between her and Suna? Her and Shikamaru?

After a moment, once Temari has raised her chin, head held high, Hinoto relents and steps away. She pulls a pair of sunglasses from her pocket and slides them on.

“Believe what you want,” she says in that low voice of hers. “But always remember, the two of you: it’s an arrangement. He is your cover. That’s all.”

Temari keeps her gaze harshly on Hinoto as her handler steps past her and walks out of the room. Temari turns to watch her walk all the way to the entrance, shoulders loose and stride long.

Shikamaru is right to hate her, he’s right to not trust her. She’s not their friend. She never was.

* * *

The nights are warmer now. They can leave windows open and let the rain-scented breeze blow in.

It’s lighter out too. It’s not dark by early evening anymore. Dawn doesn’t break during her morning runs these days.

Shikamaru leans forward, legs crossed on the floor beneath him, and rests his chin in his hands, eyes intent on the pieces before him.

He takes a long breath, mouth tight, and moves the tile two spaces. Then, satisfied, he leans back, hands behind him, and watches her make her move.

Being tipsy doesn’t help her understand the board better. Or maybe it does — maybe, with less awareness, she is able to be less nervous, less unsure about her pragmatic decisions in the game, which may just help.

Shikamaru hums as she moves the piece. Then he leans forward again.

It’s nice — this. Being here, right now, like this, the glass of wine she’d managed, her stomach warm, the quiet evening with nothing but the shogi board between them and Shikamaru smiling to himself.

It’s been three days since she’d met Hinoto in the aviation museum, but Temari hasn’t brought up the conversation to Shikamaru. She isn’t sure if she wants to. She doesn’t know what she would say.

But she can picture Shikamaru back home, fighting his superiors, asking for more work. She can see him being assigned to her. She remembers their meeting and that night in Jiro when they had their first assignment and afterwards fell asleep on the beach. She thinks about the cigarette between his lips at Tenten’s and the way his eyes narrow when he is angry.

Is this what they saw too? Is this what they wanted when they thought of him? Of her?

More likely, honestly, it’s not true. She saw the dossier. She was always going to do this, but she sees absolutely no evidence toward the claim that she was to do this with him.

Either way, it’s impossible to know how much of what Hinoto says is true, at least right now.

Still, Temari is on her toes. It’s what Hinoto had wanted, probably. But who knows? Who knows. Perhaps those were Hinoto’s orders. Perhaps not.

And in the end, she thinks, watching Shikamaru push at the tumbler of whiskey on the floor by his hip, nudging it absently as he pays attention to the board, before wrapping his fingers over the top of the glass and bringing it up to his lips, who cares?

It’s quiet. Temari can imagine another scenario here, in another world, where they sit and play shogi together to appease him until she gets bored enough, and then she’ll push the board aside and he won’t protest because she’ll crawl through its empty space and climb into his lap. That won’t happen now, but it would, somewhere else, some other time.

 _He’s your cover, that’s all_.

She’s right, of course. In most ways.

“Temari,” he reminds, in that knowing way of his, and she blinks, shakes her hair from her face, unaware she’s stopped paying attention. “Your move.”

She smiles and makes the move she’d been planning on, and when she looks back up, he is looking at her, intently, as though he hasn’t even considered the tile she’d touched. His eyes are dark, considerate. She can feel it warming her face, turning up the corners of her mouth, and then they’re sitting there like that, just looking at each other.

Has he always looked at her like that? Did he, in the kitchen that night they moved in? Did he when he was pretending around others? Did he look at her like that when she kissed him in the parking garage? It feels, now, like he always has — like maybe it has never been anything different. And maybe it hasn’t. Maybe it isn’t.

Wow, Hinoto really doesn’t know anything. Does she?

* * *

She has no inclination that anything is wrong at first. She comes home from work on the bus. It’s almost six when she walks through the front door and it’s apparent right away from the lack of car in the driveway and the lack of keys on the counter that Shikamaru isn’t here.

On the outset, she doesn’t think too much about it. His classes have already ended and he’s in exams right now, so it’s not difficult to imagine he got caught up. He has spent other nights in the study groups he’s been, allegedly, “dragged into,” and sometimes he falls asleep in the library, or so some of his classmates have told her. So when he’s not there, she doesn’t think on it any more than to notice it and only consider it in terms of dinner.

He’s not back by the time she has food ready an hour or so later, which still isn’t worrisome, but she does debate whether she should hold some food for him in the oven or put it all back in the fridge.

She goes for the latter.

Around nine, she begins to grow suspicious. He’s not usually out this late without calling the house. She’d think he was out with Kazue Haishi, but neither of them would let him stay through the night without calling his wife: they want neither the pressure nor scrutiny. Perhaps he is really caught up in studying or is actually passed out in the library and isn’t aware of the time.

It’s ten when she actually feels it gnawing in her gut. It begins as an itch. A hesitant question, a fear, of something looming.

They have friends, but not _really._ There is no one he would go out with without telling her first.

Temari is ready for bed by the time she decides to be worried. She hasn’t called the library, not wanting to plant any seeds in the mind of anyone that she and Shikamaru are at all out of the ordinary. A missing husband, a husband who doesn’t call: that’s noteworthy. She doesn’t want that, so she hasn’t called the list of numbers of his classmates he keeps or the library or the bar his classmates patronize.

She’s in her pajamas, but changes again, puts on a baseball cap and a darker wig and blue jeans and heads out. It’s fifteen minutes from here to the library on the bus, which goes slow, but there’s no traffic now so close to midnight. She takes the most direct route, something she doesn’t usually do when she is in disguise and going somewhere surreptitiously, but it’s no matter now. It’s a different driver than the few she knows. He won’t recognize her even though she is the only rider.

She’s antsy. He could call the house while she’s out, but it won’t mean much. She doesn’t mind missing him. As long as he is okay, he’ll leave a message. If she doesn’t find him now, best case, he will be back at the house when she returns. Worst case… worst case, maybe, is she doesn’t find him, or maybe it’s that she does find him, and then they find her.

No — she’s getting ahead of herself.

It’s not unlikely that he is just too caught up to be mindful of the time; after all, it is the end of his first year, and he has certain grades he must maintain. As easily as this kind of knowledge does come to him, she knows he will put in some effort for an impending exam with real consequences.

But still. _Still._ She recognizes it as an excuse, as a justification for an action she doesn’t understand.

It’s too early to act though. There are safety measures in place, training they’ve both undergone and rules they’ve both memorized.

The bus gets to the library. It’s open all night and it’s easy for her to slip in, avoiding the tired undergrad working the front desk, and walk to the area she knows Shikamaru frequents. She hadn’t seen their car on her cursory glance at the lot, but that doesn’t mean much.

He’s not there. No one is. She keeps walking, not breaking to even glance around, sure she’ll see him in the corner of her eye if he’s around. She keeps her head ducked to avoid any off-chance recognition.

It’s not a thorough search by any means, but with one loop around the structure, she is confident enough that he isn’t on the premises.

She doubts he’s at the bar, but she passes there and takes the bus from the stop down the street when she doesn’t see him.

Temari knows Kazue Haishi’s address from the retirement party a few months back, and so she takes the bus there next. It’s most unlikely Shikamaru is there, but it is on the list of places he does go from time to time.

It’s here, she sees as the bus takes her past, that she finds the car. It’s parked right before the house. He’s certainly not taking any steps to be hidden.

The lights are off in the house and the car looks untouched.

Temari stops, pausing before their car and looking in the window. Then she turns to the house. It’s in a much nicer neighborhood, naturally, than theirs, and there are many rooms where the lights could be on and she would never know from the outside. But she doubts it.

There’s little chance Shikamaru is here. Haishi wouldn’t want him to stay the night.

No. She swallows. He’s not here. Something must have happened. If they were getting rid of him — if Haishi knew it — they would have been after Temari by now. She hasn’t spotted a tail, but it doesn’t mean one isn’t there. Though, if there were hoping she’d lead them somewhere, they probably would have seized his car.

She knows nothing more. Where would he have gone? Did someone contact him? They must have.

If she knew _what_ had happened, she’d be able to take steps. She knew the form: call, pack, run.

But she doesn’t know what has happened. And she doesn’t know how long he’s been missing as a gauge to determine her standing. There is no knowing how long it’s been. Did he come here during lunch? No, surely she saw Haishi during lunch that afternoon. So after classes then. For how long? An hour? Two? When did he leave here and what stopped him from coming back?

With quick hands, she takes out her keys, which carry a spare for the car, and opens the door, starting the engine before she can think better of it.

Temari is three blocks down before she sighs, pulls off her cap and the wig and runs a hand through her own hair. She’s trained for this, and she moves deliberately and sure of the next move, but she is in a state of panic. Her stomach aches, her chest is heavy, and her legs antsy.

It could all be a mistake or it could all be so much worse.

When she comes into the busier parts of the city, she stops at a payphone and leaves Hinoto a message.

Her mouth is dry. She can’t stop licking her lips. It’s good, she thinks, to have the car. She would have had to jack one otherwise. She is much too stressed to get back on the bus.

It’s five hours of no communication when she should begin to worry. Assuming he left Haishi’s at seven, which is a little late but offers some legroom, then by midnight is when she starts contacting others. It’s eleven forty-five when she calls.

It’s still possible he is home. She calls, after she calls the number for Hinoto (which she knows wires through multiple places before the instruction, not the message, is ever even given to Hinoto), but no one picks up. That doesn’t mean much — he could be in the hospital or could still be otherwise preoccupied. But now that the five hour-mark has passed, now that she has found where he last used the car, she must operate as though he’s been taken.

Five hours, in the worst case, the worst outcome, is the beginning of when people like him start to break. It depends what they’re doing, of course, and what they want, but the general rule is that she has five hours before he talks (and depending on how good they are, he’ll talk eventually (everyone does) it’s just a matter of when).

If they had wanted him dead, he’d be dead. He may be dead, but she can’t act under that assumption.

And if he’s alive, they’ll keep him alive for much longer. They’ll want him alive. Either to get something on someone else or to get something about him — those are the two scenarios. If it’s the former, she has a minimum of forty-eight hours before he breaks (he’ll protect Temari’s identity and the structure of the operation over his own life), probably much longer. If it’s the latter, she has a minimum of five hours and, unfortunately, probably not much longer. If they don’t know who he is exactly, there is no incentive to keep him alive; he’ll only have a dozen or so more hours before they give up on him.

Temari gets back in the car and drives straight home, not bothering to check out any more places or to call up any hospitals. She checks the glove compartment as she drives. Nothing. Nothing unusual in the middle console either. Nothing out of the ordinary.

When she pulls into the driveway, she takes out the smallest flashlight, of the two that they carry in the glove compartment, and looks over the outside of the car. She doesn’t look long — she doesn’t want to draw any attention from her neighbors, but it is no matter, she didn’t expect to see anything anyway. No new scratches, no markings he may have left on this, the only thing to tie her to his last location, for her to find.

He’s not in the house when she gets there. He hasn’t been. No one has.

There is only so much she can do now. They won’t have her leave until more has been confirmed, but if she stays here, she’ll feel like a sitting duck.

Temari runs upstairs first, grabs her bag and goes into the back of the closet in the compartment in the wall Shikamaru made almost a year ago and takes out the box filled with IDs. She takes one for her and one for him. They’re unused, civilian cards. She packs two weapons and some money. If she does get the call, she’ll most likely head to the embassy. Or if they’re close, she’ll head north and over the border. Back downstairs, in the storage room, she finds other IDs, ones they’ve used before as civil servants, in case there is a need. She takes another weapon from here and some ammo. No need for a codebook if she’s on the run.

Then, she unplugs the phone from the bedroom and takes it downstairs, bringing it into the storage room where a window leads up the side of the house. There is a outlet for the line nearby. If she gets the call, she’ll exit from here. If she’s lucky, it’ll be a waste and she can easily make it to the car, and if she’s not, exiting as far from the front and back door is her best chance.

She crouches there, all the lights off, back pressed against the cement wall, as she waits for something else to happen, as she waits for him to come home.

* * *

When the phone does ring, Temari’s hand is wrapped around the top of it, the phone still in the dock. She’s awake. It’s been hours sitting on the storage room floor, stationed as close to beneath the window as she can be while keeping the phone plugged in, but she’s hardly blinked, though her adrenaline has long ebbed and she’s been holding one position in the darkness. 

“Are you there?” He is asking before the phone is even to her ear.

“Are you okay?” She asks in answer, words tumbling out, phone pressed tightly against her face with both hands.

Shikamaru hangs up. She hears the click of the line and then the dial tone. Her watch reads three fifty-two.

Hinoto hasn’t called. No one has.

Temari puts the phone down. He’s alive. Whatever happened tonight, he’s alive. He’s okay. If he were going dark, he would have told her to run. If he’s escaped something, he’d have warned her. If they had to go to ground, Hinoto would have told them already.

She assumes he’s coming back. He must be. He surely would have said otherwise.

All he’d asked though was whether she was home, whether it was her answering the call. She isn’t sure what to make of that — why would he do that? It doesn’t fit with any scenario she can imagine. Why was it good for her to stay home? Why did he want her home? What did his knowledge of her location help?

She’s still there waiting when she hears a car pull up. It’s not long past four am now. Only one car has passed through since she’s been here, hours ago, but it had simply driven past. This one stops. She hears it pull up outside before the house.

Temari stops moving. She reaches for the gun she hadn’t put in the go-bag, and clicks off the safety, loading a bullet in the chamber to cock it, and goes into the entryway, carrying the bag and leaving it beneath the window. She waits. A car door closes. The engine, which had never turned off, gets louder and then the car drives away. She’s ready, in case. It’s probably him, but in case….

From her limited view, she doesn’t see anyone out the window. She leans against the wall right near the door. There’s silence for long moments and then the sound of the lock opening and then the handle starts to turn.

Temari has already leaned back in preparation. She takes a deep breath, bag near her feet, easily in arm’s reach if she needs to run, and then, with both hands wrapped around the grip, she extends her arms, steps further back, and aims around average-head height.

But there is nothing hesitant in the turn of the knob, no waiting or attempt at silence. She knows it’s him only a second before he walks in and her gun, still raised, is to his temple.

Better safe than sorry.

It is him. She can tell in the dark, the moment his form is visible, the moment she hears his inhale at her weapon poised by his head.

“ _Fuck_ ,” the breath rushes out of her and she lowers her gun, stepping further back. “Shikamaru.” It comes out in an exhale, quickly. She releases one hand from the grip of her gun and steps closer.

But Shikamaru pulls back. He steps away, further into the house, and closes the door behind him in one motion, bolting the lock.

“Are you —” she steps forward again, heart pounding. Where has he been? She can’t get the words out fast enough, and she’s adjusting — she can see it now: the way his hair is half-pulled from the tie, the swell of his eye, the cuts on his cheekbone and the splits, multiple, on his lips.

“Temari,” he says shortly, gruffly under his breath, stepping away from her, pushing her hand back as it comes up to his face.

“What the fuck,” she starts, reaching for his shoulders, not knowing what to do except to come closer and closer. It makes no sense — who would do this? They would never do this and then let him off. Had he been mugged, maybe? In some circumstance where he actually _lost_? Street gang? It couldn’t have been Kiri. It couldn’t have been. He wouldn’t be here if… if—

Without touching her, Shikamaru steps further back, further so he’s by the entrance of the kitchen, further so he is too far to reach.

“What did you do?” He asks sharply. And it’s cold. Bitter. “Why did they come after me?”

“What are you—”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” He spits, stepping back so he is in the kitchen now. “They didn’t come for you. They didn’t question _you_!”

She frowns. Shakes her head

“What are you talking about?”

Shikamaru turns on the light in the kitchen now, the bright overhead one, and it hurts her eyes. He walks deeper in to open the fridge and makes a noise, low in his throat, when he bends down to look inside it.

He’s hurt, badly. She can see it in how he walks. His ribs, probably. Certainly his torso, somewhere in his gut or lower back. He’s stripped down to the tee shirt he’d worn under his button-down this morning. There is no sign of that shirt. There are rope burns on his wrists and higher. And his face is worse in the light when he turns, his left eye swollen shut, dark all the way down his face, lips cracked with dried blood. Whatever happened had happened hours ago. And whoever did it wasn’t working smartly. It had been brusque; quick. They seemingly hit him anywhere with no strategy that she could easily make out.

Shikamaru straightens and closes the fridge without taking anything out of it.

“Shikamaru—”

“I’ve been trying to work through it all night.” He says, closing his one good eye for a long moment before he exhales and then looks thoughtfully at the door of the refrigerator. “I know the inflections,” he says, as though on the verge of amusement. “The accent, Temari.” Then he turns to look at her. “I know the way you throw your punches.”

“What,” she breathes, not understanding anything he is saying.

He huffs, half a laugh. “They were from Suna.”

It takes a moment for her to understand what he is saying. To understand what he means. To understand what happened.

It takes longer than he wants. He’s furious. He’s looking at her crueler than he ever has before.

But she does understand. She understands why Suna would go after him. They wouldn’t unless Konoha okay-ed it. They didn’t touch her because there was no reason to, because there had never been any reason to doubt her loyalty.

She struggles to say it, to find the words. It’s caught in her throat. She feels _the_ word repeating, ringing, in the back of her skull.

It’s so trivial. So oversimplified.

“It was months ago,” she finds herself starting with, the plea clear in her voice, her intention coming from her chest. “ _Months_.” Her jaw aches. She can’t look at him, can’t look at his face and see what, in the end, is her handiwork. “Hinoto. She, she keeps saying….”

“What did you tell them?” He asks again, controlled. He’s always so emotional, but he’s always controlled about it. It’s why he’s so cold, why he’s always seemed so cold.

“That you’re soft.” She swallows. “That when you look at Kiri, you’re too soft.”

He laughs again, exasperated, and turns around, spreading his hands out on the counter, hanging his head as his shoulders move with the harsh chuckle he’s giving.

“‘Soft.’” He repeats, as though not quite believing it, as though he has to work to understand the word himself. Temari’s hands are shaking. She’s never seen him so angry, so hurt. “I _trusted_ you.” He exhales and drops his shoulders, hunches over more, knuckles white against the lip of the counter. “I thought we were here together.”

She steps forward and then comes to a short stop.

“I never — Shikamaru, I.” She’s not getting enough breath in. “That’s never been—”

“What, Temari?” He arches and looks up at the ceiling. “Even when you hated me,” he sighs in disbelief, shaking his head, “I never… I _never_ would have.”

I never hated you, she wants to say, I never actually hated _you_. Not you. But she can’t.

And she wants to say more too.

So? She wants to ask. She wants to keep talking, to admit and stand behind it. He _is_ soft. He is! He was when she said it and he is now.

Shikamaru turns to look at her and she finds she can’t look away from the mess of his face, from the intensity in his gaze. She hates him. She hates this. But she never wants him to look away from her.

“You don’t think they asked me too?” He says, sharp and clear in his enunciation. “You think I had nothing to say? Nothing about how angry you are, how hateful toward them —” he stops short, but his gaze doesn’t leave hers.

“That was before,” she tries, she believes. “I never would now, now that I….” She stops and there is a pause. She doesn’t know what she wants to say. She doesn’t know what she would say, if Hinoto asked again.

“What?” He asks, shrugging his shoulders even though it is clearly painful for him to do so. “I’m your husband, aren’t I?” He exhales, angry in the purse of his lips, in the confident set of his brow. “Nothing has changed,” he finishes sharply, looking away from her. He swallows. She shakes her head, desperate to get across something, desperate to apologize, to cover his wounds, to grab his shoulders and shake more sense into him. “A good cover,” he runs his tongue over his teeth, “isn’t it?”

He walks away after that, quick though labored, past her, and she can do nothing more than move aside. She isn’t sure what else she can say to that. She can hardly form any words on her tongue, except to deny it, or maybe, to confirm it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so so so much for reading and reviewing! let's be happy for the record breaking two house impeachments (a congratulations is in order i guess) and keep our fingers crossed for the rest


	14. Chapter 14

She doesn’t bother with going to sleep. By the time he is upstairs and everything has gone quiet, it’s crowning dawn — no sun, but the sky is a dark blue rather than black — and she doesn’t have anywhere to go. Work will begin in a few hours and Shikamaru, with his face like that, won’t be able to leave the house for days. He’ll stay upstairs until the cuts are healed and makeup can cover the rest. She has clean clothes down here in the laundry.

Temari, paused, mostly, since Shikamaru disappeared to the second floor, gives a deep sigh, as though one large breath can shake the entire world from her shoulders, and then goes to make coffee.

Still, even with the caffeine, even with the anxiety and the fury and the guilt, she finds herself drifting off on the couch. It’s probably the ebb of danger the night had presented, the relief of his safety, and the confrontation of a supposed betrayal, but her body, despite everything else, can’t rouse. She is hours late to work and only wakes up to the phone ringing when Haku tries her at home.

* * *

When she comes back, Shikamaru is downstairs. He is eating at the table with a textbook before him.

His face looks worse than this morning, and his health isn’t visually helped by the fact that his hair is down and he is wearing pajamas.

Temari, stomach tight, walks up to the table. He hasn’t turned to look at her. He hasn’t acknowledged her presence at all. There is food on the stove, but nothing set aside otherwise.

“Are you—” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“I have an exam on Monday.” He says, as though she were going to ask about the textbook. Or perhaps to explain that he has six days to heal enough that his wounds can be covered up sufficiently.

Temari swallows, looking down at him, looking at his forearm and the red lines near his wrist.

“Okay.” She says, after a moment, and then she turns around, headed back into the kitchen to gather a bowl of food for herself.

She watches tv while she eats and they don’t speak again for the rest of the night.

* * *

It like that the day after. And then day after that and the day after that.

It’s easy, again, eventually, to fall into a routine. She’d assumed it’d be harder now — now that she knows him, now that she knows what else it can be like — but it’s not. It’s exactly how it was before, in the beginning:

an arrangement.

It’s easy to forget, soon, what the sight of his stomach and the dark hair around his navel looks like. It’s easy to forget what his hands feel like on her thighs. These aren’t things that go away, of course; they are just no longer things she ought to be thinking about. They’re things she was never meant to think on in the first place. It has always been very clear, right from the beginning.

* * *

They still speak. They still live together. They’re still sincere. They’re still married. She still tells him of anything interesting at work. He tells her, after the first time he goes back to Kazue Haishi’s house since that night, when she mentioned something about her dead husband that was of interest. They discuss what to eat and what to buy and who will take the car. He tells her when Hinoto has left a message for her and she tells him what Hinoto says after they meet.

They don’t enjoy the other’s company, is all. That’s what has shifted, nothing else. If anything, this is more natural. After all, they were never actually together. She’s happy to not look for him when she wakes up, to be annoyed when he doesn’t sleep instead of worried, to not let her eyes settle on the long lines of his form.

They’re still together, in all the same ways they were and weren’t before. They still work side by side. They’re still partners.

It’s like it was, like it was meant to be. He wants nothing to do with her and she can’t stand him, but they make do, and time continues on.

* * *

Two days after Shikamaru finishes his last exam, he accompanies Kazue Haishi on a weekend getaway. Haishi has a work conference in Kumogakure. Shikamaru is joining some classmates for a weekend abroad, or so he’s supposedly told his wife.

It’s the first week in June and Temari is more than happy to see him leave.

“He’s been so difficult to be around during finals,” she tells Kahyo when she invites their neighbor out on Thursday night, the first of four nights she has without him. “It’s embarrassing how excited I was when he said he wanted to go off with some friends and lament in the woods.”

Kahyo’s husband is gone too, as he so often is, and so they have dinner together at a restaurant that overlooks the beach nearest their neighborhood.

They discuss Shikamaru and his school, but they mostly talk about Kahyo’s work and her husband.

He was married before, Temari finds out, and he left his wife for Kahyo. It’s easy to see why, listening to the honey-like melody of her voice and watching the light of the sun kiss her cheeks as they overlook the ocean — after all, Kahyo is kind and smart and any person would be lucky to be by her side —, but it is also difficult for Temari to imagine someone as well-intended as Kahyo to ever come close to taking up with a married man.

“You must have been very much in love, to choose each other like that.”

Kahyo tilts her head and looks over at Temari.

“Before you met Shikamaru, was there anybody else?”

Temari shrugs. “Minorly. Shikamaru was my first “real” boyfriend.”

Kahyo pauses and looks at the evening sun, squinting her eyes at the glare still coming from it.

“Imagine if you stayed with them, the others, and then met Shikamaru after that. Wouldn’t you do whatever it took to be with him?”

Temari snorts and looks back at the water, ignoring the reality of it. “He’d probably like to think so.”

Kahyo laughs and they go back to discussing other things.

Friday is easy — she spends all day at work, as she always does, and then that night she hangs out with Ruka and one of Ruka’s college roommates who is visiting from the Frost to help Ruka move. They go to Ruka’s apartment, the one she is leaving next week, and sit on the balcony and drink lots of wine and spend the whole time telling ridiculous stories to the roommate about their work and the gossip of who is dating who and a retelling of the one (very) public break-up they witnessed by two people who work on the third-floor. They also talk about their friends and Temari learns about Ruka’s shyness in college and the first time she went to a party. Temari also learns, which is the most valuable, that Ruka has been wanting to go to medical school her whole life and only fell in with the labs during an internship in college.

“Go,” Temari says, noticing absently that the ends of her words are beginning to slur, “don’t stay in something you don’t like.”

“I like the labs!” Ruka protests, smiling, and the college-roommate laughs. “I like working with you and with Haku and, well, you know.”

“No, you don’t,” Temari shakes her head, only realizing it as true now that it is put in front of her. “Being a doctor is so much more interesting.”

“Well — what about you? Why do you work there?”

She shrugs. “I am good at it.” She says, which is in itself an honest comment. “And I always knew I wanted to work for the government.” That’s true. Kind of.

“Do you want to stay though? Move up?”

Temari shrugs again. No use saying more when she doesn’t know what her assignment will be.

“It’s good money. Okay money. And not too much work. And I care about it. So I’m happy, for now, at least, while Shikamaru is still in school.”

Ruka laughs. “If we’re being honest,” she says, gesturing to the almost-empty bottle of wine in the middle of the table, “I can see Shikamaru staying home with kids and you staying the breadwinner.”

Temari raises her brows and takes a long sip from her glass. “He’d probably like to think so too,” she repeats as soon as she swallows. Then she clears her throat, returning her drink to the table and asking Ruka more about what medical school would entail.

On Saturday night, Temari is alone. She has some other friends she could call — Haku, of course, and a few more from work she doesn’t really know but would say yes if she asked.She’s already been with the student protestors she’s working — she’d been in meetings with them all day, so it’s not as though she is particularly lacking any social interaction. Plus, if she really wanted, she does know some of Shikamaru’s classmates well enough to pursue their company outside of him, but she doesn’t want to open the door to much discussion of him, so she decides against it. For all of them. She is too tired. She is too beat. She is too…. She doesn’t know.

Also, while she has spent many hours home alone, she’s never spent the night — an entire night — _knowing_ she is alone.

Even if Shikamaru comes back when she is already asleep and she virtually has her run of the house when awake, there is a difference between being alone for hours and knowing you’re alone _all night_.

She doesn’t realize this at first and begins Saturday evening watching a movie on tv. But she soon gets bored and stops listening well. Eventually she misses a major plot point and decides to turn it off rather than try to piece it together as the story goes on. She isn’t paying enough attention to try.

Plus, she feels like she is wasting her time by herself.

Next, she wanders into the kitchen and looks outside. It’s not dark yet, so she sees no stars, but she looks at the same chunk of sky she always looks at. And a minute later, when she steps back, she finds something stuck on the counter and decides she should clean it off. Then she cleans more, and soon she is on the ground, scrubbing out minor scuffs and stains on the tile. She only stop when she cuts her knuckle rubbing out a stain.

After cleaning the kitchen, she finds a puzzle in the credenza that she’d bought once when she’d thought they needed to fill the empty drawers and shelves of the home. The puzzle, which she’d deposited almost a year ago and promptly forgot about, has been opened. Shikamaru must have done it and then put it away without her knowing.

It’s dark by this time and she’s forgotten to eat.

She stops in the kitchen and grabs an apple. And some ice cream. And she eats that.

And by the time she heads upstairs, it is long past her regular bedtime. She doesn’t go to sleep though. That, too, feels like a waste.

She runs a bath and fills it with bubbles. She doesn’t have to worry about Shikamaru walking in, which he sometimes does inadvertently when she forgets to lock it, and luxuriates in the warm, inviting heat of the soapy water. She watches the way the bubbles settle on her skin, on her chest, on her thighs, before eventually popping or just slowly drying into a light film atop her.

When she was much younger and living in one long room filled with hard-wired bunks and mattresses thin enough to fit between her fingers, she hadn’t minded living with seventy other people. She grew used to it quickly.

But then, when she was twenty-one and no longer living in the academy, she took a month-long assignment living with three others in a cabin in the middle of nowhere through the dead of winter. And she was miserable. She hated it so much. They were working all hours — mostly through the night, with no regular sleep schedule — and then in the little time she had to herself, there was always someone _there_. Not to be entertained or even engaged with, but it was still different than living by herself.

Living with Shikamaru, in the beginning, was similar. She remembers thinking that. But over time, adapting to the presence of someone else, she’d forgotten how much she’d wanted to be alone when she was younger.

So this — _this_ , sitting here, knowing she is completely alone, is nice. It’s what she’s always wanted, after all. Sure, she’s in a house that is only vaguely her own and in a country she hates, with a name that isn’t hers, but there are parts of it that emulate her own imagined-adulthood.

Temari pulls the drain and stands up once she gets too hot. She is sweating and her hair, which she’d kept up and out of the water, is wet now at the roots from her perspiration.

She steps out of the tub carefully, planting her feet on the mat and then reaching over, out of nothing but habit, for the towel on the hook, but she drops her arm before touching it.

Shikamaru isn’t _here_. And he won’t be. No one will.

Sure, he’s seen her naked, she thinks. And if he came home now, it wouldn’t matter, she’d just go get dressed.

Except he’s _not_ coming home.

Not for days.

It’s a sort of freedom she hasn’t had in so long, she hadn’t even realized she’d been missing it.

She hasn’t actually slept naked in months, which isn’t something she always did, but it definitely wasn’t unheard of. She hasn’t, not once, slept in bed fully alone for just as long. He’s always there. Someone else is always around.

For a few minutes, Temari deliberates on what to do with this liberty. She sits at the foot of the bed, completely nude against the bedspread, and stares at the dresser, letting the water dry off her naturally. There are two photographs up, one of two people who are meant to be Shikamaru’s parents, the other, the wedding photograph Tenten and Neji took last winter.

Next, she goes downstairs, not quite dry yet, droplets of bathwater still clinging to the bottom of her calves, and makes herself a finger of whiskey like Shikamaru sometimes has.

No, disgusting.

She adds some ice.

Then she goes, still completely naked, though a little too cold now for comfort, back upstairs and into his office. She isn’t sure what leads her there except that, normally, she is never allowed in. Vaguely. She’s not actually banned from the room, of course (she’d never allow that), but Shikamaru is here, always, and the whole room _smells_ of him, so usually she avoids it. She’s only been in maybe two dozen times in the year she’s lived in this house.

He doesn’t clean much. It looks like there is no coherency to the organization. There are piles of paper everywhere, though nothing exactly scattered about either. Surely he has some system.

She starts over at the desk, where most of the papers are stacked. There is a supply of pens and a trashcan filled with balled-up paper. He has a chair, but in the few times she’s come in, he’s either asleep in it, or doing all his work on the floor.

Absently, with one hand holding her alcohol, Temari flips through the some of the loose-leaf, hoping to find anything of interest. She can feel goosebumps up her spine in the cool evening air and she can imagine how ridiculous the looks, but she is too lazy now to go put on clothes. And she wants to keep going through Shikamaru’s things. She’s hoping to find something new, perhaps something she doesn’t know and would care to know.

There is nothing like that though, naturally. Nothing personal. Anything that he cared about wouldn’t be here.

Not here, not in Kiri.

And if he, like her, ever wrote something down, like a name or a place that meant something to him, he’d have burnt it too. Just like her. Even his code books, indecipherable to anyone, are likewise indecipherable to her. There is nothing to learn of him here, even though this is the only place in this whole country that she might call _his_.

Everything in this room, all these papers and books before her, she knows about, even if she doesn’t know them individually.

She was here when he built it.

Everything that is actually meaningful to him will never be in this home.

Temari takes another sip from her glass and grits her teeth at the burn of the swallow. She decides to take a look at his notes instead, finding a few notebooks that are clearly used in his classes.

He doesn’t have many notes, and what he does take, he doesn’t seem to write down very well, or, at least, not very legibly.

In one notebook, on more than one sheet, she finds notes exchanged with someone. A woman, by the writing. Little comments every few pages. Hellos; flirtations. Temari raises her brows. She wonders if he responds. He must, as the conversations continue. He is writing back on her paper then.

Does he find the connection with this woman useful? He hasn’t turned her down, clearly. Does he make evident that he is married or does he think this flirtation will be of use in the future? Does she know of his wife and is still trying to pursue him? Perhaps he does seriously have a crush on this woman? That is always possible too. Temari doesn’t know — she wouldn’t be part of something like that.

His scrawl is tight and he presses his pens too heavily into the paper to keep the characters from blending into each other.

She turns her head one way and then the other, trying to make out the things he’d thought to jot down. She recognizes his writing, but when he is writing something down to be read by someone else, when he leaves a note at home, it’s much easier and more legible.

It’s reminiscent of when they first met; when she’d tried to piece together an entire man from a few pages of his book, though she supposes, really, she’s never done anything differently. Everything she’s tried to piece together of him, every scrap of comment or change of glance she’s noted and considered, is all just contrivance. Conjecture. On her part. And, mostly, on his.

Still. She can’t help it. It’s all she’ll have, really. So she wonders about the things he’s chosen to write down in these notebooks. Obviously it’s not much of the class — there is too little here considering the date on the first page was in his first week at the beginning of the school year.

What is he like in school? Is he well-liked? He gets good grades, and he’s friendly with his classmates, sort of, but do professors like him? When he is with his peers, does he speak of her?

She feels, for the first time in a long time, even despite the past two and half weeks where they’ve been distanced and hardly speaking more than one sentence to each other, that she really doesn’t know him at all. And she never will. How could she?

For a while there, she’d thought perhaps she did. Perhaps there was something she understood, something they shared.

But she understands now, looking at this part of his life that is separate from her, yet inextricably linked to their shared goal, that his school life is just as false as their marriage.

She doesn’t stay much longer. She goes to bed long after midnight and wakes up mid-morning, buried deeply under the covers and covered in sweat despite never having put any clothes on.

* * *

They’re probably still in bed. The Sunday portion of the conference starts later. They’re gone for a weekend trip — if they aren’t having sex at this moment, they’re about to. They’ll have room service or Shikamaru will run down for food like the over-eager student he is meant to be. Then they’ll have sex and he’ll be careful to make sure his mouth is sweet like orange juice and not bitter from coffee. He’ll have bruises and hickeys and scratches all over his pale skin and he’ll be interested in nothing but her and will be earnest and eager in a way only a twenty-year-old-can be.

Surely that’s what he is doing while Temari goes running. While she weaves through streets, trying to get enough breath into her lungs, wiping sweat from her face, he is in a nice hotel in a foreign country enjoying blowjobs and breakfast in bed.

* * *

Sometimes it feels like she is a tightly capped bottle that someone keeps shaking. She can keep going and going and will be fine — she’s _always_ fine, isn’t she? — but it’s like she’s always waiting, pushing and pushing, for someone to unscrew the cap just a bit. It’s tighter when she is wholly under cover — like with the protestors — but even here, at her home, alone… even there, no one has actually opened the bottle up.

Perhaps this is what Hinoto meant. Perhaps, if she gets too close, someone will shake it too hard.

Or worse, maybe, someone will try to unscrew the top.

And today feels like that — like she is on the edge of something; like, if she smiles too much, one more time, she’ll explode.

So she stays home again. She sits, alone, and does nothing. She thinks, in the end, nothing of it.

(though she worries, sometimes, if she’s shaken too much, will she even notice?)

* * *

Her final night by herself, Temari doesn’t do anything different or unusual. She doesn’t strip off her clothes or distract herself by going out to dinner.

She eats leftovers and does some household chores and then by nine she is in bed reading, exactly how she will be tomorrow when he is home, exactly how she is almost every single night, and will be, for the rest of her life.

She wears she same set of pajamas she’s worn all year except in the depths of winter when it was too cold to not be engulfed in clothing. She’s brushed her teeth using their shared toothpaste and is reading the same periodical she was when he left. Perhaps he’ll notice. Perhaps he won’t. He doesn’t look at her much these days and she certainly never engages in any sort of conversational camaraderie.

The telephone in the bedroom, kept over on Shikamaru’s side, tempts her.

She could call him now. She could confirm his arrival time tomorrow and ask how he is.

Are you coming back? She could ask, even though she knows the answer (there’s no option in it). I’m waiting, she could say. Would a wife say that?

Should she? She has never once called him when it was unnecessary. They never called simply to check in or to say hello, only to schedule, to ask questions whose answers couldn’t wait. Though perhaps this is necessary — as his wife, shouldn’t she call him? Is it unusual for husbands to disappear for a whole four days with no contact? Was this suspicious?

Who knows. Calling without his instruction to could ruin whatever else he has in place. Perhaps he said they’ve talked during the day, perhaps his excuse to his wife never included his staying in this hotel in the first place. It’s not worth the risk when she has nothing to say.

She can imagine what would happen. She’d call the hotel, get connected to him, and he’d be kind on the phone with someone else there, but he’d be worried something was wrong. And when he realized she was calling for no real reason, he’d be annoyed.

She remembers a few weeks ago, sitting in the storage room, knees by her chest and spine pressed against the cement wall waiting by this exact phone desperate for it to ring, desperate to hear his voice.

Temari shakes her head, even though no one is there to see it. She decides against it. She shouldn’t do it. Without anything else to do, she goes back to her magazine.

* * *

“So,” she ventures, crossing her legs at the knee, letting her dress slip to reveal her thighs. “How was it?”

Shikamaru is looking for something in the fridge and when he straightens, he is holding eggs, butter, and some peppers.

“Good,” he says absently. He’s been home only an hour and has done nothing in that time except take an extended shower.

Temari, perched on the counter, shifts to look out the window for a moment, shoulders hunched up to her ears. Good? That’s it?

“You didn’t learn anything of interest?”

He pulls out a cutting board and washes the peppers. She turns her head to watch him.

“Nothing specific,” he says as he moves, continuing to turn off the water and find a knife. “She had meetings Thursday and Saturday night after conference hours. They were late, after dinner, and couldn’t have been far from the hotel because she was never gone too long. Took nothing with her.”

“Any idea what they were about? Who they were with?”

Shikamaru shrugs, beginning to chop. “She’s hiding something. They’re not just reunions.” He says, the stove between them. “But no idea how far along they are with whatever they’re doing.”

“And you?”

He keeps chopping but turns his head to look at her, eyes dark. “Nothing.” He says, and then he looks back to the food. “Hinoto thinks I can work her.”

Temari scoffs. “Work? They want you to turn her?” She shakes her head. “It’ll never happen. You’ll only get us in trouble. They’ll always look at people close to her.”

“We’re not _close_ , Temari.” He turns on the stove and warms up the pan, melting the butter.

She rolls her eyes. “She’s loyal. After her husband was killed, she would have had to dig her way out of the cloud. She’s surely given a lot to be where she is.”

Shikamaru shrugs. “Maybe it makes her bitter?” He stops and looks up, staring ahead at the vent above the stove, taking a long breath, jaw tight. After a moment he turns and levels Temari’s gaze. “Anyone can turn, given time. They may not even know they’re doing it.”

Temari is the first to look away. She doesn’t like the hard lines of his eyes, the set of his lips, the words out of his mouth.

“It’ll be years.” She says, sliding off the counter, turning away from him and adjusting her cardigan around her shoulders. She doesn’t want to see him confirm it, to affirm it, again, but it’s no matter, because he says it aloud anyway.

“Most things are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for all the discussion (hate? 😂) last chapter. I love hearing from you. It makes me so happy to hear people enjoying it.   
> thank you above all to carol and emma for everything you do, least of all editing this.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am indebted to the absolute thorough dissection of this chapter by carol and emma, and most intently to the wonderful thoughts and sharp, sharp edits of chau. i'm so thankful for your wonderful work here.

Temari leans back against the wall and, with her plastic fork, moves the food still remaining on her plate from one side to the other.

Ruka’s new place is bigger than her last one, but it’s still well-sized for a single person in the city. From her perch against the kitchen wall, Temari is near the living room and can easily see where Shikamaru and a handful of other people are sitting around the coffee table — some on the couch, some on the floor, and a few in chairs, all in separate conversations.

It’s June now — two weeks since he came back — and Ruka is having a housewarming party.

Being at home with Shikamaru is hard, so she’d assumed (wrongfully) that being in public with him would be worse. At home, they can keep their distance. In public, they usually cannot.

Throughout the week, distance is easy, as they are both working. And last weekend, they were both helping Ruka move, packing boxes and carrying them up and down flights of stairs. Well, Shikamaru was. He’s stronger, in general, and so he moved things, while Ruka and Temari and some other friends sat around talking in some sexist division of labor. This weekend, they have this, and then tomorrow she will go to the beach with the student protestors she’s working and he’ll stay home and then they’ll begin another week of moving around each other in silence.

It’s not bad. It’s not. It’s fine. _She_ is fine.

And anyway, already this morning went better than she was expecting. This style of party is nice — it lends itself to distance. There is no “sit-down” meal where they’d sit together or anything along those lines. Usually when they go out, they have to touch and interact as a couple with others, but it’s more casual here. They’re separate. They came in together and then immediately were taken up by different people. They haven’t spoken once all day except when making the decision about which bowl to use for the fruit salad that they'd promised to bring.

Temari sighs and pushes, lightly, with her fork into the paper plate. She wonders, if she pushes harder, can she poke holes into the plate without bending the whole thing and spilling her food?

There’s a movement in the corner of her eye and she looks up to see Haku standing from where he sat in one of the chairs near the couch. He is gesturing to her, lifting his chin for her attention, and then he begins making his way over.

He’s smiling when he reaches the kitchen, moving next to her and turning so that they’re both looking at their respective spouses on the couch.

“They look funny next to each other,” Temari says after a second.

It _is_ funny to see them sit together, pressed relatively tightly — tighter than men usually sit — toward one end of the couch. Especially considering that neither of them are big talkers, and yet they’ve been pressed tightly together, seemingly muttering to each other, for close to an hour now. Shikamaru quite likes Zabuza, he’d once told her.

So close to each other like this, Shikamaru looks small in comparison to Zabuza, with his large shoulders and strong jaw.

“He used to be in the military, you know,” Haku says, considering the two men twenty feet away from them seriously even though Temari had been mostly joking.

His military background is evident in the way he sits, especially next to Shikamaru, who is casual and loose in his body, looking like no sort of labor has ever befallen him.

“Versus that one who has never done anything physically demanding in his life,” she jokes. It’s not true of course, but it certainly looks that way, _feels_ that way in how Shikamaru moves, which, if anything, is a testament to how strong a player Shikamaru is.

Haku laughs.

Temari turns to her friend. “Really? He was in the military?” She waits for Haku’s nod. “In what? For how long?”

He shrugs. “Started when he was really young. Long before I met him. But he got kicked out eventually.”

Temari barks a laugh, as though wholly caught by surprise. “He _what_?!”

Haku smiles, a little sheepish as he obviously quotes someone else’s categorization. “He’s a, you know… ‘political radical.’”

Temari straightens off the wall, laughing, covering her mouth with her hand, and Shikamaru and Zabuza stop talking to glance at her, as do some other people, so she lowers her voice when she asks Haku to tell her more.

Of course, she already knows all of it. They’d studied it as soon as she’d met Haku. It’s why Shikamaru likes him so much — they’re not quite ideologically aligned, but they have some similar opinions on the role of leadership and the people, though of course he could never tell Zabuza that.

Zabuza would make a good source, a loyal one in their mutual dislike of the current Kiri politick, she’s always thought, except his beliefs are too public. He’s a known dissident. He’d really been kicked out of the armed forces. And what Haku isn’t telling her is that Zabuza hadn’t just been another soldier — he was _high_ up. Him being forced out had been a Big Deal. Going after him was too risky. Kiri will always have eyes on him for the rest of his life and everyone knows it.

So they keep their distance and their thoughts to themselves.

“How old were you?”

“Just fifteen.”

“Wow,” Temari shakes her head as she exhales. Haku is older than her, though not by much. Regardless, that’s a _long_ time to be together. She’s always thought that the idea of her getting married by twenty-six was too young. She thinks that this person — this Temari Nara — probably should have had a few more boyfriends before settling down with her husband. Maybe then she would have seen how incompatible they were. “You were so young.”

Haku thinks about this.

Temari tries to picture it — young, innocent Haku and tough, angry Zabuza, still in a military uniform.

“When I was young, I idolized him. I just hung around him all the time.” Haku smiles to himself. “I guess I never really grew out of that.”

Temari looks at him and sobers, meaning the question seriously. “Even now?”

Haku nods, sure in his answer. “Even now.”

She swallows.

She looks back over. Shikamaru hasn’t touched any of the food on his plate. He is frowning, brow heavy as he listens to what Zabuza is saying, and she can tell he is genuinely ruminating on whatever it is.

“We’ve been struggling,” she says then, surprising herself. She isn’t sure she’d even actually said the words aloud, sure she wasn’t brave enough to actually bring it up, except Haku is looking at her, eyes wide, clearly having heard it.

There’s no rule against marital difficulties. They can’t get divorced, yes. Their marriage is part of their cover, part of their safety. Any unnecessary attention to their marriage, anything that could put it into doubt when looked at with a certain light, is obviously bad. So, while there is no _rule_ she is per se breaking, it’s not good to have said this. She shouldn’t have said this. Except … it’s been so long — a year next month — of suffering in almost complete silence, living with someone she doesn’t want, and so this admittance, this single sentence of what is less-than-a-half-truth, feels like a weight coming off her shoulders; like, if she doesn’t close her mouth now, more and more words and feelings will come out.

Haku is still staring. He’s surprised.

Temari immediately waves her hand, dismissing it. “I don’t mean—”

“I’m sorry, Temari,” he says, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder.

Why is he so sincere about it?! All marriages have struggles, don’t they? What is there to be surprised about? They fake it, but Haku knows them both — there is nothing compatible about them in the first place!

She shakes her head, swallows, looks at Shikamaru, who is not paying her any attention, and then goes back to Haku. “It’s okay. Nothing out of the ordinary.” She tries to take even breaths. She really shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.

“If I may,” Haku says, voice serene and contemplative, dropping his hand from Temari’s shoulder, but keeping it against her elbow, warm and soft against her skin, “I don’t mean to intrude when you haven’t asked me to, and of course one can never know what is going on in a relationship from the outside, but if there are any two people I trust to be successful together, it’s you.”

Temari scoffs on impulse and rolls her eyes. Everything he has seen is a ploy, a disguise.

“I’ve never seen anyone look at another person the way he looks at you.”

Wow, impressive. She should give Shikamaru more kudos on his acting.

“You’re right though,” she says, stepping back a few inches so that Haku’s hand falls away from her completely. She drops her plate of leftover food on the counter beside her. “Relationships are always different in private.”

She never should have said anything. Not to anyone. Not at all. She isn’t sure what she was hoping to hear.

* * *

She’s antsy when they finally leave. She doesn’t want to sit in the car. She doesn’t want to go home. She takes the keys from Shikamaru’s pocket as they say goodbye to the people remaining at Ruka’s and he doesn’t protest. He does nothing but frown at her, and then he walks silently to the passenger side of the car and slips inside.

It’s in her hands, in her palms, sweaty against the wheel; in the balls of her feet and the heat behind her ears.

He seems to be feeling none of this, leaning back in his seat, eyes closed like he’s tired from their two and a half hours of being sociable when they have absolutely nothing more to do all weekend. He’s wearing a short-sleeved linen shirt that he keeps tucked in, but he’d undone the first few buttons of his collar as soon as she’d pulled the car out, as though too bothered to keep up any appearance.

Temari isn’t sure what she wants to say to him.

No, she is. Nothing — she wants to say nothing.

But she also doesn’t want to keep being delicate about this, to keep pretending as though his distance is ever anything she has wanted. She wants to bridge something between them again. Not like there once was, not like she once _thought_ things were — just to find something more. To stop walking on tiptoes around each other. To be partners, in the balance, however unsteady it may have been, again.

“You spent a long time with Zabuza,” she says, minutes later, when she turns onto their street a few blocks down from the house. It’s only midday and there are three children sitting on the sidewalk eating popsicles.

Shikamaru shifts, but doesn’t open his eyes.

She can’t look at him much while driving, but it’s been a long time since she has looked at him at all, and so in a few glances, she takes in the line of his brow and the structure of his mouth; the crease of his eyelids.

“Sure,” he answers, groggy, even though she knows he hasn’t fallen asleep in the ten minutes it takes to drive home.

“Well?”

Shikamaru opens his eyes to glance at her, annoyed, and then closes them again. “Well what?” His voice is clearer now and there is an edge to it. She knows he’s aware of what she’s asking, but she supplies it for him anyway.

“What are you thinking?”

He sighs and, with measured reluctance, as though letting her know just how tired he is and how little he wants to engage, he straightens up in his seat and fixes his gaze on her. “He’s too close. Going after him is too easy.”

Temari rolls her eyes. “Yes. Of course.” She puts on her blinker and turns into the driveway, putting the car in park but not turning off the engine. “But look, let’s say he went with the mercs after his discharge” — she means during the few years he was off the radar between leaving the military and turning up with Gato and the others— “if he did, maybe there is a part of him that really wants to pursue it, to continue his dissent and take action. Maybe we’ve been going at it all wrong. Maybe he’s only here because he’s in love, not because he doesn’t believe in the fight anymore.”

She means, he understands, that perhaps Zabuza didn’t stop his political radicalism because he lost interest or because he felt defeated by Kiri, but because he chose to pursue some _one_ over everything else. If so, it’d be of use… it meant Zabuza would still pick up the cause… and it meant he had something he wasn’t willing to lose.

“You’re painting too romantic a picture.” Shikamaru says, turning more to square off to her. “He’s a soldier, Temari.”

He’s right, mostly, but she is surprised considering they are both well aware of the lengths people will go for their loved ones — it’s the thing they’re taught to exploit first. 

And Shikamaru’s never heard Haku talk about his boyfriend. Shikamaru doesn’t know. He hasn’t _heard_.

“Things are different in private,” she finds herself repeating. “We don’t know what happened.”

Shikamaru exhales, slow, through his nose.

“So,” he asks, after a moment, “what are you proposing?”

She licks her lips. “I know you like him. We have a connection with him. And Suna, _Konoha… we_ like him. We should see if there is movement, the potential for a platform.” She looks at him. “So he can’t do anything clandestine with the heat. We can still push him into the public, push him into movements already happening. Have Neji or someone do it, of course. But it can be done.”

“It’ll be trouble for your friend.”

“Haku won’t mind.” She is sure of that. The two of them, she believes, have chosen each other in a way she could never do with Shikamaru; even when she’d used to think on it, it never would have happened. They have something she doesn’t; but she can recognize it.

“It’s too close.” He says after a moment. He rubs his neck, looking tired. “They’ll look at his associates, always. Even if he leaves the labs.”

“They’re already looking at his associates now.”

Shikamaru sighs. “Fine. Talk to Hinoto. Do whatever you want.”

God.

That’s what he said last time she proposed someone they knew.

She hates when he does that. When he says that.

She hates when he dismisses her, when he backs down from arguing with her even though he clearly has an opinion that differs from hers. She wants him to defend his thoughts, to be openly hostile, to engage with her and not shrug it off. Doesn’t he want to fight with her? Doesn’t he want to _give_ her something _more_?

“It’s not whatever _I_ want, Shikamaru,” she says sharply. “It’s both of us.”

By the time she says it, Shikamaru’s hand is already on the door handle and, after a beat, not looking at her, he pulls it, opening the passenger side fully. But he stops before getting out.

“No,” he says, voice low and calm, as though he is talking to a child, as though he is educating her as to a basic concept that she is having difficulty realizing. “It’s not. It was never _us_ , Temari. You’re the one who made that choice. It’s them. Konoha. Suna. And Kiri.”

She hits her hands against the steering wheel. “Why won’t you just say what you want to say to me?” Then she grips the wheel, needing to hold onto something so she doesn’t reach for him. And she wants to — to push him, to punch him, to cause him some form of physical pain for everything he’s ever done to her. “If you want to yell at me again, just do it!”

Shikamaru exhales, deceptively calm on the surface, but she knows him well enough to feel his rage.

And it is _rage_.

Then, without a word, he unhooks his belt and pushes himself up and out of the car.

She doesn’t watch him walk around the car, onto the flagstone path, and into the house. She sits there, knuckles white against the wheel, shoulders hunched as she takes deep breaths.

She has more to say about this. She has more to say to him, and sometimes, he gets her so riled, she forgets to articulate exactly what she means to get across. She knows this, and she doesn’t want that to happen now, so she spends a moment in the car, thinking about it before she goes in.

He’s so selfish, so entitled and arrogant in his own intelligence and ability to look at the world through a multitude of nuanced perspectives. He is always making assumptions about what she means and what she wants and he’s never taking steps in either direction, in any direction that doesn’t involve work. He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t step away. He just decides how she should be, how _they_ will be, and then frames the situation as though this was always her choice, her dictation. He’s done that since the day they met.

He resents her — he _hates_ her, as his wife and his partner and the only person he has in his life when he never asked to be with her in the first place.

He hates her as much as she hates him.

He’s always said, he’d be much happier with someone less opinionated, someone who simply did their job and didn’t push him to do anything differently. He’d be happier with someone else and he’s always known it. That day he met her, the day he first looked at her — he’s always known it.

So has she.

After only a minute, still fuming, Temari fully turns off the car and goes into the house, slamming the door behind her.

She isn’t sure where she will find Shikamaru — she hasn’t thought of anything except the need to say these things to him, to hear him confirm them in his own voice, under his own eye — but she’s still surprised to actually see him standing in the living room right above the coffee table where the shogi board is out after it was never put away from the last time they played over a month ago.

It stops her, hard, as though there really is something physical holding her back, like a hand against her chest. She feels the air leave her lungs. It’s so quick, it hurts.

It’s an image, of weeks ago, long over a month ago, when she’d played him on the floor right over there and she couldn’t stop looking at him.

There were so many times, _all_ the time, when she couldn’t look away from him, all those times she thought only of him; the way he made her feel, the way he took her hand once on an airplane within only hours of meeting her.

It’s the challenge of him she misses; his determination and settled decision to disagree with her on everything, and his smirk when he successfully changes her mind.

It’s minutes they stand there, him directly above the shogi board, her a few feet behind, halfway between him and the front door.

And she’s lost what she wants to say. What she wants is for this to end. To be over.

“When are you going to forgive me?” She asks, eventually, words hard in her throat as they come out. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

“There is nothing to forgive you for. He speaks without turning around, shoulders straight and collar loose around the back of his neck. “You did nothing wrong. You did your job.”

She steps forward on her inhale, stopping herself from reaching an arm out. “You know the context,” she says quickly. “You _know_ I was right. And, and that was before—” she shakes her head, pushes her hair from her face. “You understand, that was _before_.” Though she doesn’t quite understand what she means either. “I didn’t know you. I didn’t think I owed you anything.”

“You don’t,” he says, turning around to stare at her. “You owe me nothing.” He sighs and tilts his head, looking at her like she’s right about something, this time. “And you don’t know me, Temari.”

“You were right,” the words rush from her, trying to amend, to smear the look from his face. “I was wrong. Is that what you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say _anything_. Don’t you understand? You did nothing wrong.” He steps away, rubbing his eyes with his hands, as though trying to clear his head, his sight. “As your husband, _I’m_ sorry that it took me so long to see that.”

It’s not said in comfort, not in reassurance of anything. It’s cruel and removed and paints the word ugly. But, of course, it’s always _been_ ugly, hasn’t it? She’s never wanted it. She’s never liked it.

And then, apparently satisfied, Shikamaru turns away and begins making his way upstairs.

Temari fists her hands.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” She says it quietly, not even meaning to be heard, but he stops on the stairwell anyway, spine long and shoulders tight, foot raised to take him to the next step.

It’s only a moment. And then, without a word, he continues up.

* * *

When he eventually comes in from the office, she has already been in bed with the light off for at least an hour. She hasn’t fallen asleep, but she doesn’t want to stay up either for whenever he comes in, so she lays in the dark, curled away from his side, with her back to the door.

She makes no move when he opens the bedroom door and then shuts it behind himself, but even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. Even if he knows she’s awake, he still won’t speak to her.

She listens, eyes closed, as he walks around the room undressing, into the bathroom, and then finally back into bed.

His breathing is heavy and it’s not long before she does finally fall into a fitful sleep with the hum of his exhales.

Hours later, sometime past midnight but long before dawn, she wakes up again. 

He’s gone now. She doesn’t reach out to feel his side because she’s sure he’s been gone for hours. He’s never slept well, but it’s worse when they’re fighting.

Or maybe they’re not fighting. She doesn’t know. Maybe now this is simply an accepted middle-ground of their marriage.

Maybe this is simply the rest of it. The whole of it.

It’s hard to close her eyes this time. She’s energized even though she’s hardly slept.

Temari gets up eventually and makes her way downstairs. As predicted, the light is on behind the closed office door. She walks on quiet feet down the stairs in the dark, reaching out for the bannister even though she knows every inch of this place.

She knows it all too well. She knows everything, she thinks, too well.

In a way, she wishes she could leave — that she could go outside right now for a quick breath and some quiet reflection. Theoretically, she could physically walk out of this house right now, but not without more effort. Not without shoes and a sweater and some direction. Not without opening the door. Not without being confronted with a strange city, a foreign land that will never be her own.

But still, she wishes it were easier. She longs to be back at the beach, back during their honeymoon when she could open a door and be on the balcony overlooking the dunes. She wants to sit and listen to the waves, to feel her hair grow thick with the salt and knot in the breeze coming off the sea. Or she wants to be back in Suna, where she could climb the escape up to her roof and look at the stars.

She settles in the kitchen on the counter where she sometimes sits at night. It’s a small glimpse, but it’s the best view of the sky from the house.

It’s no matter anyway — it will never be as good as the one she grew up with. The sky here, the sunsets — they can be beautiful, sure, especially over the ocean, but it’s nothing like home. In Suna, even in the city, which is by far the most densely populated area and thus holds the most light pollution, the sky is more beautiful than anything she has ever seen. It’s closer in elevation, and that difference is tangible. Everything — the moon, the stars — is bigger, brighter, back home.

Still, even knowing that, knowing it will never be what she once had, she comes to sit here, looking out to be reminded of something she’s lost.

It can make her feel insignificant, looking at the sky like this. It makes her feel worthless, makes all her sacrifices trivial in the grand scheme of the world. The moon, so much larger and more impactful than their small lives on this planet, makes her feel as though everything she does in this life is absolutely without effect. It’s not a bad feeling. It doesn’t make her ashamed or paltry. On the contrary, looking at the moon, even when she was a child, is what makes her feel the most _human_.

She’s leaning against the cabinet, head turned up at the window, when she hears him in the kitchen. Rather than a noise, it’s more a feeling of his presence, of being watched and not being alone. He’s always too quiet on the stairs. She hates it. It’s possible he’s been there for a long time before she’s even noticed. He’s standing by the entrance, in the shadow where the dim light from the streetlamp doesn’t hit; in the spots that are dark enough that even her adjusted sight would never catch him.

There is some time before he does anything, though he knows that she’s aware of him. He stands there in silence, looking at her. She can feel the itch of it on her knees, in her stomach. She sits up, rising off the edge of the cabinet, straightening out her spine.

Then he comes closer, just a step, out of the shadow, though some of it still seems to wrap around his shoulder, against his tee shirt. 

“Go to bed.” Her voice is surprisingly clear for her not having spoken a word aloud since mid-afternoon.

“You’re down here,” he responds as though that’s at all an answer. He’s not wearing his pajamas anymore. He has pants on and a belt. Socks too. Maybe he is going somewhere. She doesn’t care to ask.

Temari rolls her eyes and leans back against the cabinet, taking her gaze off him. She’s unimpressed. He can go do whatever he wants. As long as he follows the rules, she doesn’t care what he does when they’re not working.

She hears it, this time, when Shikamaru takes another step forward.

“I can’t give it to you both ways,” he says, voice kinder than before.

Oh, now he wants to engage about something? He left this afternoon, but is ready in the middle of the night? This is what works for him? Bullshit. It’s always playing by his rules, his interests. He never barters for anything.

She closes her eyes against the sky. She has no idea what he is talking about. She doesn’t want to do this, even though her heart is pounding, even though she is itching for something in her fingertips.

“I’ve never asked you for anything.”

Shikamaru gives a small, exasperated laugh, stepping even closer.

“You ask so much, Temari. You want _so_ _much_.”

She opens her eyes, but doesn’t turn her head to look at him.

He’s such an asshole. She’s never wanted anything from him. She’s never wanted him. He’s always thought too much of himself.

“Really?” She says, unsure why she is even engaging in the first place, only knowing that she can’t quite stop the words from coming out although she wants to. She wants to stand up and walk away and ignore him. She knows it’s pointless — they’ll simply never see eye-to-eye. She thought they might, that they had, once, but she doesn’t anymore. Still though, she answers. Still, she speaks without meaning to, without wanting to. “What? Is it too much to ask for you not to continue blaming me for something I did months ago? Is that too bold of me?”

It’s like acid on her tongue and, out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shake his head and come even closer.

“You want me to leave you alone.” He says, and she nods, so he keeps going, slow and with precision, clearly just to annoy her. “To be stronger and work harder, to give you attention, to choose Suna over Kiri, to know me without me breaking protocol, ever, by telling you anything.”

He’s not making sense. And he’s never been anything if not coherent. He always chooses his words carefully, always puts intent behind them. But she can’t make sense of it now, can’t parse out the meaning of his sentences.

It’s mostly bullshit. He’s so analytical, so particular and calculative, that she imagines there is some sagacity or discernment in what he is saying, but his words, though said sycophantically, are scattered.

How is he putting anything on her? How is this _her_ fault? What has she ever asked of him?

She doesn’t turn. She doesn’t want to look at him. Even with the aid of the darkness, to see any bit of him directly is to see too much.

“You’ve always made so many assumptions,” she says, trying to be as imperious in her tone as he is in his.

The streetlamp outside flickers for a moment.

“Shikamaru. What do you want from me?”

He comes closer and closer still until he is before her, and then he leans forward, bearing his weight onto his hands on either side of her legs, palms flat against the edge of the counter. It’s the closest he’s been in weeks now. She can smell him, can feel the heat of his stomach, his hips, only inches from her knees.

She remembers, once, sort of, being in the same position and feeling as furious as she does now.

She’s like a live wire, like waiting dynamite. She’ll burn him. She’ll explode. One touch, and she’ll bring him down. He’s not safe before her; it’s not safe to be this close.

“Tell me,” he says, voice much lower, his head hanging, shoulders slumped. “Just… tell me.”

Slowly, Temari turns her head to look at him. He’s crowded in against her, too much so that she is forced to stay back against the cabinets or she will be against him. She curls lower, curving her spine, pressing her shoulder blades and her skull into the wood, willing him to move without saying anything.

“Tell you what?” She breathes.

He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t move closer either. He inhales, slow, and exhales, just as slow, and she watches the rise and fall of his back and shoulders as his head hangs down, face toward her lap, hair pulled back low by his neck.

“You said I didn’t know everything.” He is almost whispering now. “Earlier.” He takes another deep breath. “What do you mean? I’ve been thinking about it all night. _What_ don’t I know, Temari? What don’t I understand? We dislike each other, so what? What more is there to understand? That’s what I want: I want you to tell me.”

If there was an answer, if there is one, she would have given it. If she knew, she would have said. If things were okay, if anything about this could be okay, she would say so.

But they’re too different. Too incompatible.

He’s always been a strange man in a strange country and she has always been alone.

What more is there to understand?

Nothing, she thinks, but doesn’t say. Nothing more.

Instead, tentatively, with little consideration of what she is doing, she puts her hands, both raised, to his forearms. She means to push him away, to push back and slide off the counter and go back to bed, but she stops before she has pushed him at all, stops any force from her palms, and just stays there.

Shikamaru doesn’t move. But he holds his breath, body tense.

And then, with his skin warm against hers, she moves her hands up, over his elbows, up his arms, to his shoulders, and over the back of them.

She feels his muscle, the bones of his back, the dip of his deltoids, his collar. She’s never touched him like this.

His neck, when she touches it, burns.

Shikamaru exhales when one hand rests against his pulse, and she feels it hum beneath her, feels it pushing against her palm. He’s still, but his body is electric. Her other hand fists in the collar of his tee shirt and stays, holding, waiting for something else.

There’s a beat, a moment, and then, slow, slow enough so she can see it, slow enough that she can see his torso brace itself to keep his position while releasing his weight from his hands, Shikamaru lifts his hands from the counter and brings them up, pausing for only a second at the end, to touch her knees.

And then his hands, together, move up to her thighs, and up, higher.

His palms are so hot. Her skin burns in their wake.

She can’t breathe. She hears nothing but her blood rushing past her ears and the deep exhales he’s making, sounding like they’re from his stomach.

His hands are so large, wide on her thighs, and she’s wearing her pajama set and he keeps moving, only stopping when the tips of his fingers come right beneath the hem of her shorts.

Carefully, no longer thinking through anything other than chasing the feeling in her gut, the warmth in her chest and between her legs, she reaches higher, slides her hands from his shirt, his neck, up to his head, holding behind his ears, on his jaw, pulling his head up to look at her for only a second — less than a second — and then she’s pulling him in, closer, and kissing him.

It’s all one motion, one tug, one intention, probably, but he goes along with all of it, coming with her, closer into her space, slotting his mouth against hers and opening his lips in invitation.

He hasn’t shaved, he hadn’t today or the day before, and the skin at his jaw is rough where she holds his face between her hands, holding him too close, hardly letting him pull back to breathe.

“What,” he asks when he’s able to pull back an inch, and then he’s kissing her again, tongue sliding into her mouth, wet and burning and her eyes are tightly shut, her chest surging her forward, her nails, digging into his skin. He makes a noise, guttural from the back of his throat, and she lets him go, tilting her head back to look up at the ceiling, opening her eyes and blinking to refocus as he leans closer to bare his teeth, his lips, into her neck, beneath her jaw.

He kisses up to her ear, to the lobe, down the side of her neck, at her collar.

She feels it right to her groin, but it’s not enough. It’s like pulling a rubber band, tighter and tighter, worrying toward breaking it, toward pulling too hard or releasing too early, but not going anywhere in the tug itself.

She needs to press closer, she wants to feel the push of anything, honestly, between her legs, and his hands, on her hips now, pull her in when she spreads her knees, urging him to come between them, urging her legs around him. It’s no more than a gush of breath as she slides toward him along the counter.

“What do you want,” he pants, with almost no intention behind it as he stops kissing up her neck. But he doesn’t follow up, kissing her mouth again, pushing further so that her hips are almost off the counter, so that they’re almost against him, and she’s falling down, her head now only on the very bottom edge of the cabinet, too close to coming off.

She clings to him to keep her up, to keep his mouth on her. She pulls at his hair. Her body is warm, everywhere. She’s sweating, her heart is pounding.

He reaches with one hand for her buttons, and then asks it again, “what do you want?”

But his hand is in her shirt, at her sternum, up against her neck, almost choking her.

 _This_ , she wants to say. I just want this.

And then he’s pulling her off the counter, pulling her down and turning her around, her bare feet falling against his socked ones, weight on her toes as he pushes her forward, leaning to mouth at her ear again, hips pressing into her butt and thighs against hers, chest in-line with her spine.

“What do you want from me?” He asks again, close enough that it’s nothing more than breath in her ear.

The lip of the counter hurt as it cuts into the flesh of her hip. It’s only a moment though and then she is turning around and pushing him back, pulling his face back down, hands in his hair, nails in his scalp, lips against his, walking back until he’s pushed to the opposite counter.

She’s wanted this for so long. So long.

She doesn’t understand why he keeps asking.

Sometimes she feels like they’re two tectonic plates — they balance, for the most part, but when they collide, it’s violent. And one comes out on top. One will always come out on top.

She puts her hands on his stomach, down on the buckle of his pants, up underneath his shirt, pushing at his abdomen, up to his rib cage, and more and more until he pulls away enough to take off his shirt. He’s pulling at her buttons again, the lower half still done, tipping her head back and kissing her jaw as he does it, a hand on her neck.

And then her pajama top is off and she’s pulling him down by his buckle, down lower and lower until they’re both lying out on the kitchen floor and she’s pulling him down on top of her.

She hadn’t thought this was to happen. Not like this. Not now, not here. But here it is, and now he’s up on his knees, reaching for his belt, and she’s pulling off her shorts, not even feeling the cold of the tile against her skin, her back, as she lays naked on the floor, legs spread.

“What do you want?” He asks again, he keeps asking, even though he’s kissing her again once his pants are off, even though his cock is hard at her hip, his hand coming down to touch her. He’s still saying it, variations of it, over and over as he touches her, as her toes curl and she arches back on the floor as his thumb comes to her clitoris. He’s moving absently, he’s speaking absently, all he’s doing is kissing her with intention, but it doesn’t matter, it’s all too much. He’s touching her too much, he’s speaking too much.

“Well,” she manages, knowing her voice is broken and not nearly as confident as she wants it to be, “is this going to end as quickly as last time?”

Shikamaru turns his head to look at her. He raises onto his elbows, eyes dark. “Did you — you—”

She shouldn’t have said anything. She too doesn’t know what she means.

“Get on with it,” she mutters instead of answering, and pulls her hand gripping his tricep down to swipe along his cock, difficult from this angle, and he doesn’t pursue it, tipping forward and hitting his forehead against the floor by her shoulder.

“ _Fuck_ , Temari,” he swallows.

“Trying,” she breathes, and then she’s turning her head to find him again, to kiss him again.

He takes it as some real invitation, some more legitimate sign, because then he’s pulling back and he’s sitting back on his heels, widening her legs with his hands at her knees, and she’s aware of what she must look like, how wet she is, how flushed her chest is, how she can’t seem to get enough air in, waiting for him.

And how beautiful he is, in the streetlight, the moonlight, just above his head through the window, his skin white and the hair on his chest and his stomach and the quiver of muscle by his belly button as she reaches forward to touch him.

Is this it? Is this what she wants? What she has been waiting for?

He comes closer, falling in more directly between her thighs, weight on one elbow while his other hand brings them into alignment. Sweat pools at his forehead and she’s panting before he’s even inside her, but then he’s pushed into her, is pushing, all the way until his hips are against her, and she can’t help the noise that she makes against the press of pain, no matter how aroused she already is. She should have let him finger her the way he was trying to before — but it’s no matter, the sharpness of it feels good, makes it feel more real, more stark, and she is squeezing her eyes shut, reaching blindly for his shoulders to pull him down closer to her.

“That’s,” she says, “that’s— _yes._ ” And he’s pulling his hips back and then pushing forward again, and quickly falling into an easy rhythm. She holds at him, kisses all parts of his skin before her, his shoulder, his bicep, his neck. She’s wanted to touch this part of him for so long, she’s wanted to be touched by him for so long, she’s shaking with it.

There’s no hesitation now.

“Temari,” he says, deep, though it’s no more than a breath. “What do you want?”

He’s already fucking her on the kitchen floor. What else does he want to know?

She means to say this, but he bites her ear, and his chest, slick, is pressed against her stomach, her breasts, and she forgets quickly.

He keeps asking though, usually in broken sentences that sound almost on the edge of delirium. It’s mostly pedantic at this point, like he is just reciting the words without understanding the meaning behind them.

She wraps her hands around his back and holds him down, twisting her legs around his, digging her heel into the flesh of his calf and pressing. She wants to bruise him. She wants to mark him. She wants him to feel what she is feeling, to stop speaking, to do nothing but feel like her: to be overwhelmed.

“More,” she says, even though she isn’t sure what more she is asking for, what more he could give. He can’t come closer, he can’t touch her _more_ than he is at the moment, he can’t go deeper inside her, but she wants more, wants something she doesn’t know how to ask for, doesn’t know what it is. “Please, Shikamaru, please…oh, god, _yes_.”

But then his hands are on her face as he pulls her away and he’s looking at her, eyes boring into hers, leaning down as though he needs to get closer to see whatever it is he’s looking at. He’s stopped moving and she pushes her heel harder into his calf, urging him to press forward again, but it does the opposite. Instead, he pulls out, he holds them completely still, he doesn’t even blink as he looks at her.

It’s longer than she wants, longer than she can stand, but he’s holding her still, keeping his face from hers, his brows drawn together in a frown, his lips red, even in the dark.

And then he blinks, voice clear, as he says, “ _oh_.”

She frowns, shakes her head, tries to pull him back, but he’s too strong and she has no leverage.

“ _Fuck_. Come _on_.”

He is staring at her like he’s found whatever it is he is looking for.

“All this time,” he says, and then he surges down and is kissing her again, he’s inside her again, pushing harder, faster this time.

She’s too busy, too dismantled to concentrate on what he is saying or what he means. All she can think about is the flex of his shoulders, the feeling of his hand on her breast, the hardness of his cock inside her, the sweat at his roots as she knots her hand in his hair for more grip, the thickness of this hair she’s wanted to touch since the day they met.

“I should have realized,” he says, sometimes, broken into different parts. “I never realized. I was never looking…”

“What,” she begins, but she moves on, not caring, not paying enough attention, and not willing to sacrifice any attention there.

“I was never looking for it because you, _you_ , you always made it so clear how you—”

Every thrust of his hips, each kiss, the sound of his voice in her ear — it bears more satisfaction than she can handle, and in the end, it’s only a few minutes before she’s swatting at his chest, his shoulders, telling him she is going to come, to push harder, because she’s right _there_.

“I can’t believe I never realized,” he is still saying, but he’s doing what she’s asked, so she can’t find it in her to mind too much even though she knows whatever he _is_ trying to say is mostly nonsense.

But then she does hear it, she hears him say it against her skin, and she has no idea how long he has been saying it for. Maybe this whole time. Maybe just now. Maybe he’s been saying it for months.

“You love me.”

The breath spills from her lips, but she says nothing, she only freezes, keeping her hands tight around his back, keeping him down.

He’s still moving though, he’s still repeating it.

“You,” he says, “you’re—” it’s said with clarity, with unclouded confidence. “You’re in love with me.”

She’s furious. What the fuck— she tenses and then moves to push him back, palms flat against his chest.

Sex, she thinks, “it’s sex,” she says. What is he even talking about?

She pushes and he falls back, slides out of her, sitting on his toes as he leans back, chest heaving and eyes wide. She sits up, attempting to figure out what is going on, to make sense of the situation as they sit there naked in the kitchen, edging away from her climax, sweat glistening against her chest and lungs on fire.

“Temari,” he says, rough, like there’s an ache in his throat, and then he leans forward, grabs at her elbows, her shoulders; holds her face so she can’t look away from him (but doesn’t he know how hard it is?). “Temari.” He’s trying to focus her, but all she can feel is the pounding of her heart and the come down of lost orgasm. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She blinks, tries to clear his face in her vision, and then shakes him off, scooting back on the floor, away from him, the shock of cold tile under her butt and hands more sobering than anything else she’s done yet.

“I haven’t said anything now.”

“No, you—” he reaches forward. “I thought…” he’s smiling. About what? “This is it, isn’t it?” He grabs her ankle first and then her knee and then he pulls her forward so that she’s sliding back down, legs opening once more to invite him between them. She doesn’t fight back, doesn’t maintain her solus, but allows herself to come down, to re-familiarize herself with the press of his skin against hers, allows her toes, without any words, to dig into the tendon of his ankle when he slides back into her in one long motion.

He’s above her again, inside her again, body still warm and heat still slick.

“I never knew,” he says, looking down at her.

It’s been so long since she’s looked in his eyes, since she’s really looked, and seen the way he looks at her.

“I thought,” his breath fans over her face. God, doesn’t he know how annoying that is? “I thought it was only me. I don’t—”

“Would you shut up?” She snaps, and then she reaches up to pull him down again. “I was about to come.”

And he does, mostly, though he’s still muttering nonsense every moment his mouth is unoccupied. But he is kissing her, he is still thrusting into her in slow, hard motions; and it’s nothing to let it build up again, to hold onto him and taste the salt on his skin, the soap she smells after he showers that she now feels against her tongue, to keep him inside her and moving with enough consistency that it’s only moments before she’s there again, gripping onto his arms where they hold him up on either side of her head, to bite into his shoulder, to whisper against him as it hits, curling in her toes and burning at the back of her eyes as her core tightens and she snaps forward, burying her head into his neck and straining her arms to hold on.

He slows, moving softer, shorter when she comes down. She’s so hot, and suddenly his press against her is no longer appealing, but sticky, her heat no longer something to complete, but just an uncomfortable layer surrounding her.

Still, she closes her eyes and runs one hand down his spine to his lower back and pushes, urging him further into her even though there really isn’t anywhere to go.

“Okay,” she whispers, and then he goes quicker, much faster than before, shorter and more erratic. It’s less than ten seconds before he comes, groaning into her shoulder, back curling and lips pressed into her bone.

And then they’re there, in silence, nothing but haggard and mismatched breaths as they lay completely naked on their kitchen floor, sweaty and dark, his weight, his ribs, pressing heavily into her chest. She is struggling to breathe, but she isn’t ready to push him away. She doesn’t know what comes next, she isn’t sure what to say to him, what to confirm or deny, or if he’s still furious with her. He’s closer to her, physically, than he’s ever been before, absolutely as close to her as he can be — and it’s something she has considered since they met; something both inevitable and distant at the same time, both completely unknowable and waywardly expected. She knows every part of him: she’s slept beside him every night for four weeks short of one year, and yet she doesn’t know this part, she doesn’t understand what this is.

So she lies there, her legs wrapped around him, his hip bones pressing into her, her right hand sliding through his hair.

Finally, after too long, Shikamaru raises back onto his elbows and looks down at her.

He blinks, slowly, like he’s on the verge of falling asleep. And he looks content, as though there is no verdict to be weighed, nothing on the table for discussion. And then, without a word, he rolls onto his side, slipping from her, peeling his skin off hers, reaching with his top arm to squeeze her breast as he brings his arm from across her body over to settle by his side. He tips back, lying spread out on his back beside her, pressed into the cabinets in the small space of the kitchen.

Neither speaks—

—though, she thinks, staring at the ceiling, there is much to be said.

Yes: a verdict. On something. An answer she doesn’t want to a question she didn’t ask.

Or maybe, like she was told months ago, even if she were to say anything, even if there were things _to be_ said, how much does it matter in the end?

Finally, Shikamaru raises one arm — she can see this even in the shadow beneath the countertop — and then he drops it over his eyes, elbow pointed toward the ceiling. She turns to look at him, the angle of his arm, the profile of his jaw, and then looks back straight. She saw his hand. Neither of them are wearing their wedding rings. Ha. How fitting.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

It’s quiet. Much quieter than she expects. He’s been speaking with such overblown confidence until now, but this is soft.

Her heart is slowing down in her chest, but its thumps are still hard, still pushing against her ribs.

“You.” She shakes her head on the floor. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“No,” he says, eyes still closed beneath the crook of his elbow. “Temari.”

She huffs, angry now as she comes off the high. She wants to push him further from her, to stand up and walk away.

“You haven’t spoken to me for over a month.”

He’s quiet. But she doesn’t move away and she doesn’t make any motion to stop him speaking.

“I thought,” he says, slowly, finally pulling his arm down and blinking up at the ceiling. They don’t even lie this close together in bed. She can feel the heat coming off him, even though she’s getting cold now, pressed into the tiled floor, sweat drying on her body. “Before they questioned me. Well.” He exhales. “I thought, maybe, you felt it too. I thought our marriage could be real. As real as it can be. And then, after that, I was so… _angry,_ angry that I had been so wrong, that I could have gotten things all wrong.”

“It never will be.” She says quickly, in reaction. But then she swallows. Her mouth still tastes like him. “I thought that too, though, sometimes.”

Carefully, without looking down, Shikamaru stretches out his hand between them and grabs, gently, to hold her wrist.

It’s another long minute before either of them speak again, but even though she’s cold now, even though she has no interest in touching him, she doesn’t pull her hand away.

“I thought I was doing what was best. I thought I was making you happy. I thought I was giving you what you wanted.”

She does pull her wrist back now, holding it to her chest with her other hand, touching the warm places where his fingers had been.

“How could you ever think you were making me happy? That’s such bullshit.” She sits up, straining her core, and turns to look down at him. “You’ve been such a pain since the moment we met. You never do what I want or what I ask. You fight me at every turn.”

Shikamaru looks at her, but the corners of his lips are pulling in and the cut of his smirk is stark against the dryness of her own mouth, the flutter in her stomach as she worries about what to say next, about how to determine what she wants from any of this.

Then, without responding, Shikamaru raises to his elbow and leans close to her back, near her tailbone, and kisses her hip. His lips are cold now, but it sends a shock of feeling into her chest anyway.

“Who cares that we disagree?” He mouths at her skin. His teeth, when they scrape, shoot heat right to her groin again.

“We don’t just ‘disagree’, Shikamaru,” she looks away from him, staring at the cabinets at the end of the kitchen. “We hate each other.”

“No,” he laughs against her back, “we’re in love.”

Temari rolls her eyes. He has no idea what he’s talking about.

“When I met you,” he continues, “you were so intimidating. You were so sure of yourself. And you were so disappointed with me. And I was so young—”

“Still are.” She interjects, but he is continuing, wrapping his other arm around her lower stomach as he begins kissing his way up her spine, pausing only for a moment to plant his lips directly to the scar the bullet left in her back.

“—but I saw how you looked at me. Temari.” He sits up, still behind her, forehead pressed to her shoulder. “No one has ever been able to make me as angry as you do. And you knew how to do it from the moment we met.”

“That’s a bad sign.”

“No,” he kisses her shoulder. She feels his hair, silky and softer than hers, fall against her skin. “It’s because I’ve wanted to please you for so long, because you’ve been in love with me for so long….”

She turns, urging him away with her shoulder. “Stop saying that,” she snaps, but he’s not moving back, he’s moving closer, reaching his hands around her face and pulling her near so she’s forced to turn her body fully toward him as he brings her lips back to his.

The kiss is softer this time.

“It’s true,” he says when they part.

She doesn’t argue it now, but not because he’s right. Just because she’s too lazy, and he is pulling her into his lap, and right now, straddling him sounds like a much better option than talking more about hyperbolic things.

They make love again like that, still before dawn and still on the kitchen floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope some satisfaction from all the wild (wild) theories of some of you on tumblr. thank you all SO SO much for your wonderful engagement and absolute constant encouragement.


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